


Wear Your Freedom

by thatsthefrailtyofgenius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Harry is stubborn, M/M, draco is awkward, everyone is queer as per usual, ginny and luna scare david cameron, hermione and pansy are useless lesbians, shameless aestheticism, this fic is ridiculous i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-04-14 22:43:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14146194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsthefrailtyofgenius/pseuds/thatsthefrailtyofgenius
Summary: Featuring useless lesbians, Ron's eternal frustration with Draco and Harry, Gucci menswear, and a sunny country helping things along a bit. Awkward gays don't know how to tell each other they wanna kiss; what could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this fic came about, but it sort of just... happened. 
> 
> There's a lot of shameless aestheticism as tagged, featuring Gucci menswear, Hermione in Bebe Rexha's iconic glittery jumpsuit, and the London Aveda institute. 
> 
> I have a very busy schedule and I'm mentally ill, so updates will be sporadic and sometimes months apart. If you're willing to bear with me though, I'm hoping we can all see this fic through to the end together.
> 
> There's a focus on Hermione and Pansy's relationship and development, because I like to write about women, and because I felt it was important to address the authentic lesbian experience in the way we have to overcome the idea that we're predatory, or that our attraction is similar to the male gaze. Which it isn't. But its still a light hearted story, with all the joys of love and miscommunication and humour and gay shenanigans of fanfiction. 
> 
> Please leave a comment, and let me know what you think, it really helps inspire me to keep writing. 
> 
> As always, thank you. 
> 
> Dee xx

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](https://paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it <3

* * *

 

Harry steps down off the curb outside Holburn’s shiny Travelodge and growls, flipping the finger at the black cab that nearly takes him straight off of his feet. Turning the collar of his single-breasted Givenchy against the gust of wind that blows up from Shaftsbury Avenue, he tugs in a sharp breath to calm his irritation and tightens his grip on the duffel on his left shoulder.

On any other cold London morning, he would have turned in through the glittering door of the Aveda Institute and sprinted upstairs, been greeted by a disapproving glance from his boss for being thirty seconds late always and without fail, no matter how early he leaves in the morning. He’d set up at his station and make a cup of cheap coffee in the break room, because the expensive shit they sell tastes mildly like battery acid. Carly would come rushing in like a whirlwind of chaos and bash stuff over with the mass of shopping bags she accumulates before 8am. And he’d spend the day listening to the dramatic retellings of C list celebrity life as recounted straight from the horse’s sparkly white mouth. Muggle and wizarding alike.

But today, his feet take him straight past the Institute, to where a silver Range Rover is parked on the corner waiting for him.

“Ready?”

“No,” Harry huffs as he throws his duffel into the back seat and climbs in front passenger, slumping against the leather.

“You’re such a drama queen,” Hermione snorts, rolling her eyes. “Today is a big opportunity for you. You could look a little happier.”

He flashes her a maniacal grin, to which she rolls her eyes and starts the engine, a small smirk twitching at the corners of her mouth.

“Its not like I couldn’t have gotten in touch with him myself and offered to work the shoot.”

“But would your _pride_ have allowed it?” Hermione remarks, and Harry refrains from answering so as not to give her the satisfaction of agreement.

She turns right onto the A400 on Tottenham Court Road, and he curls his hands in the pockets of his coat to keep from fiddling and picking at his nails.

“Do we have the sketches?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, they’re in the duffel. I had the rack sent over to the studio already. No doubt he’ll have shit to talk about the outfits, but he’ll have to fucking deal with it. He’s the one that pulled us in on three day’s notice wanting a full book of looks when I haven’t even seen him in over a year.”

“Okay,” Hermione sighs, turning the radio down a touch and dulling out the sarcastic drawl of Nick Grimshaw. “If you’re going to work with him on this, you have to ditch the hostility right now. Leave it at the door. I’m serious, H; he’s one of my best friends, but he’s still not the easiest personality to handle if you can’t keep your cool.”

“It’s weird that you’re friends with him,” Harry pouts, sinking further in his chair, aware he’s acting like a dejected two-year-old but not quite able to check himself.

“To you it is,” Hermione smiles warmly at him out of the corner of her eye, stopping for traffic as they hit Harrington Square Gardens. “But I’ve been his manager for eighteen months now. I had to learn to love him, otherwise I’d be miserable and so would he. And there’s no point in that.”

The rain beats on the windscreen, and Harry follows the monotonous swipe of the wipers with his eyes, wetting his chapped lips and swallowing before sitting up a bit and tugging the hairband from his hair. He gathers the top of his curls into a small bun and lets the rest fall to tendril around the curve of his neck, sniffing.

“How do I do it?”

Hermione grins and reaches over to squeeze his thigh, turning right at the High Street and pulling onto the A503 to Camden Road.

“You don’t have to be perfect right away. Just do your job. You’re damn good at it, and don’t take his shit. But… don’t lose your temper. He’ll respect you for that at least. He doesn’t like loose cannons on his ship.”

Harry bristles, nervous energy causing the radio to static and shut out. But he clamps down on the stray magic he can feel sparking around his fingertips and singeing the wool material of his pockets, gritting his teeth and breathing in through his nose.

“Its fine,” he shrugs finally, “I’m fine. It’ll be fine.”

“That’s the spirit,” she laughs softly, squeezing his thigh once more before returning her hand to the steering wheel. They hit traffic again at Finsbury Park, but once it fades, is a smoother drive along Seven Sisters Road, and before he’s had a chance to register it, they’re turning onto Markfield Road and past Rainbow Works, to The Cove Studios.

The slam of the car doors gets him up and moving properly, and they’re led to a brownstone room with wooden beams across the skylight, bathing the space in a pure pallet of brightness.

Against the back, there’s a white shooting block set up, fresh and clean and lit in a familiar way that makes Harry calm, even if it’s just for a second. It looks like the places he used to frequent for Hermione, back when she was a freelance photographer starting her career. She’d worked one job for Malfoy, the day before her twenty first birthday, and he’d hired her to his team immediately.

After just six months, Malfoy asked her to become his manager, and she’d accepted, although she still shoots for him on days like this, when it’s important and he needs someone he trusts implicitly to do the job.

Spotting Dean where he’s assembling the clothes to the left, beside a table laden with paperwork and three laptops, Harry approaches, dropping his bag to the floor to get his attention. Dean’s face floods with relief upon seeing him, and Harry winks, feeling his anxiety loosen further. This really is fine. It’s what he knows. It’s what he is good at.

“A’ight?” Harry shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the end of the rack, pressing a comforting hand to the small of Dean’s back. He’s deliberately ignoring the bustling corner of the room where Hermione has gravitated to, not quite wanting to look at or address Malfoy before he absolutely has to.

“Okay, mate?”

“I’ve been better, but let’s get on with it, yeah?”

“Coffee on the table for you,” Dean says, and Harry presses a kiss to his temple before reaching for the steaming mug, wrapping his fingers around it to warm them and leaning back against the table, gesturing for Dean to show him their designs in the flesh.

“The suit is for this set,” Dean tells him what he already knows, sliding the bag off the hanger and unzipping it, eyes sparkling with joy.

This is their art.

They pick the colours and shapes, then they work out how they can do it, who they can buy from, or if they need to make it themselves. Because they’re on a very short schedule, they’ve spent the whole weekend in Dean and Seamus’ Soho apartment bent over sketches and looking through designers on the internet. Hermione had gotten fed up with them ringing her every ten minutes, and flooed through to tell them she was transferring a shit tonne of cash from the Malfoy account so they could just do whatever they needed to make the shoot happen.

Seamus had provided them with an endless supply of caffeine, fast food, and snapchatted them arguing over fabrics whilst shoving pringles in his gob and laughing at them.

“Okay,” Harry says, letting go of his coffee where it remains hovering in the air and stepping forward, taking the suit from Dean.

It’s beautiful.

Tailoured to fit Malfoy like a glove, it’s a heritage jacket embroidered at the breast with Dragons, with a notched collar, wide and sharp pointed lapels, and made with a black wool-mohair blend. Matched to black, straight leg trousers, and leather loafers branded with signature GG web buckle. Dynamic, different, but sleek and acute.

“Okay, this is fucking amazing.”

“We did good, didn’t we?”

“We did,” Harry feels quite cocky as he nods to himself, tugging in a long, deep breath through his nose and patting Dean on the shoulder. “Alright, into the snake pit.”

“Good luck. I’ll hold the fort.”

Harry swallows and waves for his coffee to float beside him as he grabs his bag again and takes the suit with him, feeling his stomach do an antsy somersault when he claps eyes on the back of a very blonde head of longer hair than he was expecting.

“Lads,” Harry greets the ensemble around Malfoy, all people he’s worked with before, people who are regulars at the institute and sit in his chair once or twice a month. He’s received warmly, with bright smiles and hugs and pats to the shoulder. Hermione is still stood near the mirror, talking on the phone, although she’s dressed down today, in high waisted jeans, shiny YSL Chelsea’s, and an oversized jumper. Harry feels like the seconds leading up to coming face to face with Malfoy are ticking away sluggishly, but too fast at the same time.

“Harry, do you have a – ah, thank you,” Hermione says as he hands her a hairband from his wrist before she’s even finished her request, and he finally enters the bubble surrounding the centre pull of the room.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry says, attempting to keep his tone neutral. He drops his bag on the floor again, beside the stool Malfoy is settled in, and levitates his coffee to sit on the desk in front of them. “How goes?”

“Not too shoddy,” Malfoy replies, an almost bored expression on his face. He hasn’t really changed in the past year and a half since Harry last saw him.

His eyes are still that focused, eerily calm crystal blue; both striking and alarming. A steel clad, calculating gaze that flicks about, taking far more information in than the length of the look suggests. As ever, it says ‘you’re not important enough for me to dwell on’, but also ‘I have noted you; please don’t make the mistake of thinking I don’t know you’re there and will tear your head from your shoulders if you so much as think about hurting me.’

His lips are still that pale pink colour, soft and rounded but not plump, his nose still long and ruler straight, but fits his face better than it did as a teenager, his cheekbones still narrow and sharp, prominent but fuller than they were; Hermione has mentioned assigning a dietician to get him to eat more. He’d been extraordinarily thin when she had basically started running his life. Forcing him to give up unhealthy starving habits had apparently been a long and rocky road, particularly keeping the issue out of the wizarding press.

But his hair, which Harry has the delightfully awkward job of styling alongside his wardrobe for this photoshoot, has clearly not been cut in at least a few months. Highly uncharacteristic of Malfoy’s extensive cosmetic routine, and slightly disorienting as Harry retrieves his kit and unfurls it.

“This is the cover shot,” Hermione tells him as she takes a clipboard from a random crew member and signs on a few dotted lines. “With the suit. So, let’s go professional and smart.”

“Quiffed,” Harry nods to her, absently sipping from his drink and attempting to cover his surprise. “Not too much product though. I have a spell to keep it in place.”

“Is this spell exclusive to everyone but yourself?” Malfoy drawls, and Harry goes to snap out a reply, but bites his tongue when he catches the amused, teasing glint in his expression, peaking through the determined stillness. It’s not malicious; it’s meant to break the ice. Which is so fucking ironic Harry struggles to believe it’s actually happening.

“Hermione likes my curls,” Harry announces, allowing room for the nudging of banter. “Don’t you, Hermione?”

“They’re adorable,” she smiles, clearly very happy that they haven’t burnt the building down in a duel yet, pinching at his dimple and causing him to blush slightly. He narrows his eyebrows and clears his throat, batting her away. He gets to work, trying to deal with the absurdity of the situation without making it weird; thinking he might have stepped into an alternate universe where it’s perfectly normal and commonplace for him to have his _fingers_ in _Draco Malfoy’s hair_.

Its silky and soft and Harry tries very, very hard not to make eye contact with him in the mirror as he swallows down on the strange feeling in his gut. The fitters hang the suit up and it makes it easier that whilst he works, Malfoy is also working; confirming appointments, talking in a low, assured tone with Hermione. She’s arranging different consultations, meetings, and interviews for him.

Slowly, Harry starts sculpting it into place, brushing it up and slightly to the left on top of his head, making the decision to keep it a bit loose, allowing a stray strand to fall over his forehead. As he works, the studio starts to warm up as the large lighting equipment gets assembled and moved around, Hermione finally leaving to get behind the cameras.

She returns just before Harry is almost done, and takes a quick picture of the two of them when Harry is bent over his shoulder, observing a final check in the mirror.

“What-”

“For social media,” Hermione says. “BTS insights are important. It’ll go on the magazine’s website and most likely be printed in the issue.”

“You don’t think that’ll be a PR nightmare?” Malfoy raises his eyebrows, although he still looks frustratingly calm. Its maddening, and Harry almost wants to cause an argument.

“I think it will be a PR orgasm,” she says, when Harry is in mid swallow of his drink, and he coughs, spluttering and struggling to catch his breath. Malfoy and Hermione are fucking smirking at each other, the little shites, and Harry has never been so uncomfortable. His palms are sweating, so he simply glares, and packs his stuff up, holding both of his middle fingers up to them as he leaves.

They’re not too busy whilst Hermione is doing her work. Occasionally, Harry or Dean step in to adjust the way the fabric falls on Malfoy’s body, which is just as surreal as styling his hair, but after the first hour, it becomes almost like any other job. Mechanical, instinctive.

And Malfoy is a natural.

Standing in all the right positions, hands in pockets, long legs bent at the knee now and again. Sometimes he curls his fingers around the lapels of his jacket and tugs it forward, and Hermione makes a sound of approval, a smile curving her mouth. They’re eerily fantastic together, Harry notes, the most unlikely duo, but they seem to just _know_ each other. And more and more, Harry realises the look in Malfoy’s eyes when he addresses her, is respect. Unwavering, quiet, unconditional respect.

Its disjointing.

Harry has successfully managed to somehow avoid having to spend any social time around Malfoy since Hermione aligned herself with him; he’s become expert at faking headaches when he’s invited to parties Malfoy is attending and has been blessed in the fact that Malfoy never comes to the institute.

Before he knows it, they’re done with the first part of the shoot, and in seconds, they get Malfoy out of the suit and back in a plane white t-shirt ready for hair and make-up again. Harry doesn’t need direction this time, as they move everything downstairs to an elegantly lit, minimalist kitchen, the dark of the brick walls contrasting warmly with the golden glow of the tiny lights dotted around and shining out of them, glinting of the white surface of the island in the middle.

Brushing the spray out of Malfoy’s hair and dropping the spells, he takes all of two seconds to decide to leave it limp and natural, styling a side parting and running his hand through it a couple of times to make it look mildly mussed.

Dean brings over the Gucci jumper they’ve picked out for this one; yellow with blue and red piping on the sleeves, and ‘Blind for love’ knitted in red across the front. They’ve paired it with GG jacquard jogging bottoms in dark blue and red, with white piping and red and white ribbed ankle trim. They get him to take his socks off, which he isn’t happy about, and Harry only just resists the urge to tease him about his long, bony toes.

Hermione takes some photos of him making coffee, eating cereal, sat up on the countertops with his legs dangling over them. Harry doesn’t have a favourite shot because he’s indifferent to every aspect of Malfoy’s appearance, of course.

But if he did, it would be one from the next costume change.

They put him in a Rainbow Gucci Hollywood jumper, oversized so the sleeves fall over his hands, and match it with a pair of black, relaxed fit, flared polyester joggers, piped with the famous green and red Gucci stripes. Hermione gets him to lay across the red leather sofa, and there’s a still where the soft golden light casts a certain shadow across his cheekbones and makes his skin look an almost healthy shade for the first time ever. He looks simultaneously sharp and soft, the casual nature of his clothes humanising the ever-present aristocracy that gives him a constant air of power.

Its excellent work on Hermione’s part, and Harry tells her so, whilst Malfoy looks mildly offended at the implication that it has nothing to do with his own natural beauty.

The rest of the day goes fairly smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, Harry is very nearly lulled into a false sense of security. That is, until it’s time to pack up and leave. Malfoy makes his way over to where Harry and Dean are placing the clothes safely into a large suitcase.

“Thomas,” Malfoy says, looking strung out and sleepy, although no less stoic. “Apologies for our lack of interaction today. It has been busy.”

“Oh,” Dean says, looking like a dear caught in the headlights as he stands up from his crouched position and coughs awkwardly. “Uh… right, no worries. Understandable. Did we um – did we do okay?”

“Satisfactory.”

“More than satisfactory,” Harry can’t stop himself from cutting in, a little frustrated. They have done a fantastic job, on short notice, with barely anything to work with.

“I meant no disrespect.”

“Of course,” Harry says blandly, wetting his lips and shrugging, forcing his jaw not to tense up as he tugs the hairband out and scratches at his own scalp to try and loosen the ache starting up behind his eye sockets. “You never do.”

“Potter,” Malfoy replies, lifting his chin a touch, shifting his posture more rigidly and making direct eye contact. Harry bristles, despising the way he says his name even now, after so long. “Is there a problem?”

“No, none.”

“I assure you, you will be paid for your troubles.”

“Right,” Harry grits his teeth, nostrils flaring. “That’s all that matters.”

Malfoy blinks, swallows tightly, sharp jawline moving with the motion. He tucks his other hand into the pocket of his trousers and nods once, phlegmatically, pursing his lips.

“I can see it’s been a long day for everyone. There’s a driver outside waiting to take you both home. I’ll… thank you, for your work today. If there’s any issues regarding your cheques, please talk to Hermione and she’ll get it sorted. Gents.”

Malfoy nods again, and bows himself out of the conversation, rattling Harry further. It’s too much. The atmosphere feels too taut and abstemious; like there’s a storm whirling beneath a pristine, bulletproof glass flooring and no matter how much Harry stomps his feet, it won’t smash and let him breathe.

“Merlin, H, snap out of it. What’s got your thongs in a twist?”

Harry rubs at itchy, dry eyes and shakes his head, shrugging into his trench and bending to lift their bagged equipment.

“Nothing,” Harry says in an awful attempt at lying. “Best not keep those chaps waiting in the car, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean snorts, a knowing look on his face. “Let’s not.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Party planning and coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If its not too much trouble, please leave a comment letting me know what you think. It really helps breed inspiration. 
> 
> Lots of love, as always. 
> 
> Dee xx

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](https://paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it <3

* * *

 

Hermione places two coffees down on the table in front of Pansy Parkinson and sits opposite her. Outside, rain trickles down the glass window panes of the Starbucks and fogs up the corners, and she places her bag down near her feet.

“Alright,” Parkinson says, raising one immaculately shaped eyebrow and sitting back in her chair. “What am I doing here?”

“It’s Draco’s birthday next week.”

“Yes,” Parkinson agrees. “What is your point, Granger?”

Hermione wets her lips and rubs at her mouth nervously, sniffing.

“He hasn’t mentioned doing anything.”

“Perhaps it’s an occasion reserved for his closest friends and family?”

“Of which I count as nowadays,” Hermione narrows her eyes and forces herself to remain calm. It wasn’t meant seriously, Parkinson knows Hermione is close to Draco on both a personal and professional level. It was meant to get her riled up. “Has he said anything to you?”

“He rarely does,” Parkinson sighs and takes her drink from the table, wrapping her fingers around it to warm them. “I usually take that as a sign that he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Perhaps it’s a novelty reserved for his closest friends and family,” Hermione remarks, and she swears she sees wicked amusement flicker in Parkinson’s honey brown eyes for a moment, although it’s gone before she can pin it down, and she isn’t stupid enough to call her on it.

“Perhaps,” Parkinson nods, crossing one leg over the other, deliberately drawing Hermione’s glance. Long and smooth and covered by skin coloured tights, they’re designed to be eye catching and distracting. And fuck if they aren’t doing their job. “What are you proposing? Something interesting, I hope.”

“Always,” Hermione bites back, swallowing and dragging her eyes back up. “I want to throw him a party.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Parkinson grins finally, electric, like the cat got the cream. Her red painted lips curve, white teeth baring.

“Yes, well,” Hermione clears her throat, shaking away the way her brain short-circuits. “You’re his best friend, and his ex-girlfriend. You know him better than anyone, and I’m a very busy woman.”

“So, you want me to plan it?”

“Co-plan it,” Hermione corrects her sharply, sliding a notebook towards her and placing a biro on top of it.

“You have my attention, Granger,” Parkinson tells her, sitting forward again, pinning her with her eyes. “Venue?”

Hermione flicks off the unease and tightens her hold on her business-woman front, sipping at her coffee.

“I know Draco likes to pretend he is unattached and showy at all times, but he is a homebody at heart. So, his manor will suffice. We can still make it shiny and glamourous, but he is less inclined to parade around inauthentically for people who don’t really love him these days. You are in charge of guest list and décor. I will arrange caterers, music, entertainment, and schedule.”

“Granger,” Parkinson leans forward even further, lowering her voice slightly and wetting her lips. “I rather like being told what to do by you. What a compelling development.”

The sentence is timed as Hermione takes a too-big gulp on her steaming hot coffee, and she has to try and swallow it without choking. It burns her throat as it goes down, and when she’s done, her eyes are watering and her heart is thudding in her chest. She draws in a few, discreetly sharp breaths in through her nose and brushes the hair from her face, acutely aware that her cheeks are flooding with flush.

“Behave,” Hermione manages, voice cracking slightly. “I’m serious.”

“Oh, so am I,” Parkinson winks at her. “Deadly. I’ll have some preliminary designs for you by Wednesday. Let’s do lunch.”

“Or you could just email them.”

“Where is the fun in that?”

Hermione struggles not to tell her to fuck right off. Parkinson has been taught to use her allure to her advantage at every turn, to have the upper hand, to throw people off their guard so that she can control the situation. Even something like organising a surprise party is a power trip for her. Hermione knows this isn’t genuine interest. Not that it isn’t almost working, but she is clever; she can see it for what it is.

“Very well, have your little clout play. Amuse yourself. But I’m expecting your full co-operation on this project, Parkinson. This is important.”

Parkinson observes her closely for a moment, calculating eyes flickering over her face. Hermione sits rigidly still so as not to squirm under the scrutiny and lifts her bag from the floor, standing up and taking her drink with her.

“You really care for him, don’t you? Are you sure you’re not in love with him?”

A laugh trips past her lips, and Hermione feels the ground shift more equally this time, tickled at the most ridiculous suggestion.

“Quite sure. The fact that I’m a raging lesbian might throw a spanner in the works there. Wednesday. No later. Meet me at Prezzo on the West End, 12pm sharp.”

Hermione remains long enough to see the shock set into Parkinson’s expression before she turns on her heels and walks out, smug as she feels eyes follow her all the way out the door as she lowers herself into the driver’s seat of her car and leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two bros, chillin at a bar, discussing their love life because they're both super gay.
> 
> and hermione goes into party planner mode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and let me know how you're finding it. 
> 
> Love always,  
> Dee xx

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](https://paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it <3

* * *

 

Beer sloshes over the side of the pint glass Ron Weasley places down on the bar of The World’s End, and slides onto the stool presented to him.

“Fuck, I’ve been craving a pint all week,” he says, shaking the stray spill from his fingers and thanking the bar maid who hands him a limp cloth to wipe them dry. He rubs at his nose and sniffs, shaking his head to get the hair from his eyes.

“Knackered?”

“Understatement,” Ron tells Harry as he sips from the overflowing glass and hands the money over. “This auror training bullshit is no joke. Proper mad, it is.”

His bones are aching in places he wasn’t even aware existed, and he has bruises on his arse from flying a broom for three hours straight on a practice drill on Thursday, when he’d been up at 5am to make it in on time. This is the first day off he’s had in a fortnight, and he’s still spent the morning in bed.

“You look chuffed though, mate,” Harry snorts, gesturing at his face. Ron assumes he’s referring to the gentle flush along his cheekbones and the loose way he’s moving.

“Yeah, well, Blaise was a bit excited to have me home past 9am this morning.”

“Uggh,” Harry huffs, and Ron feels a pang of sympathy roll through him. He pats him on the back.

“Chin up, lad. I don’t understand how it’s been four months for you, but soon.”

“S’a bit difficult to meet a guy when you’re the saviour of the bloody wizarding world.”

“Awh, babe,” Ron grins, rolling his eyes. “It’s a hardknock life.”

“My dick is perpetually hard, Ronald,” Harry grumbles, gulping heavily on his pint of Carlsberg. “I’m going a little bit mad.”

“Because of all the things that could possibly send Harry Potter mad, it’s gonna be blue balls, right?”

“Definitely,” Harry says, but smiles in spite of himself. “How are things with Blaise, anyway?”

“Pretty fuckin top notch if I do say so,” Ron says, warmth flooding his veins. He’s unable to stop the instinctive curl of his lips, and the lingering scent of Blaise’s cologne on his clothes makes him want to start belting out a Carly Rae Jepson song. “Might even marry him at some point.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry’s eyes widen and he nearly chokes on his drink.

“Reckon he’ll say yes and all. Hermione is helping me pick out a ring next week.”

“You kept that one quiet. Don’t you think it’s gonna be weird, your ex-girlfriend helping you pick out a ring for your boyfriend?”

“Nah,” Ron says, and he’s being absolutely honest as well. Hermione is his best friend, and she’s way better at choosing pretty things than he is. Although, Blaise isn’t something she would have grabbed off the shelf for him, and he’s one of the most beautiful people he’s ever known. Ron did that one all on his own. “I’m pretty sure she’s hung up on someone else at the moment anyways. She’s got that nervous tic thing going on.”

“I noticed,” Harry smirks, and Ron raises his eyebrows. Hermione is… all business most of the time, and as kind and gentle as she is with the people she loves, she doesn’t often afford herself the same treatment. Which means she misses things regarding her love life whilst she throws herself into her job and forgets to deal with any feelings she might have for any of the women she meets. “It’s only a recent thing. And she’s pretty useless when it comes to realising when women are attracted to her.”

“All the time,” Ron sighs. “Reckon we should give her a bit of a nudge?”

“Give her a couple more weeks. We still don’t know who she’s crushing on either. I’m sure it’ll be obvious at Malfoy’s party.”

Ron watches Harry’s eye twitch a bit at the mention of Malfoy, and something in the back of his head flickers to the forefront, causing a knowing inclination to buzz to life. He wets his lips and leans against the bar a bit more.

“Y’know-”

“Don’t,” Harry holds a finger up, and Ron bites down on irritation. “I know exactly what you’re going to say, and don’t. It’s not happening.”

“I’m gonna bang your fuckin heads together one day,” Ron orders a packet of salt and vinegar Walkers and tangles his ankle with Harry’s. They drive him up the wall sometimes. Being friends with both Harry and Draco is a damn battle. It’s been four years since the war ended, since they left Hogwarts forever, since the deatheater trials. Neither of them has held down long-term relationships, and both of them avoid seeing each other as much as possible.

It isn’t like Ron is best buddies with Draco, but after being with Blaise, he’s gotten to know him a bit better, and actually gives a shit about whether he lives or dies. Which is frustrating as hell, because Harry and Draco have been kind of obsessed with each other since they were eleven, but continuously insist it’s just intense mutual dislike. Of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that they’re most likely soulmates.

“I’ll rip your arms off,” Harry tells him, but settles in a bit closer and doesn’t kick him away.

“You’re coming to the party though, right?”

“I don’t get why I have to. I don’t even know him, really, and he doesn’t even like me. I don’t understand why me being there is even remotely appropriate.”

“Same social circle,” Ron lies, grinning wickedly and flicking at Harry’s forehead. “It’s important. Besides, it isn’t that he doesn’t like you. How did the shoot go the other day?”

“We tolerated each other.”

“You didn’t blow the building up, then?”

“No,” Harry says. “It was… strange. And awkward. And overwhelming. But I don’t – Ron, please, I just don’t want to talk about it.”

Ron sighs, disappointment and acceptance setting in as he nods and shuffles in a bit closer.

“No worries, mate. You ready to get food?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I’m actually hungry as fuck.”

“Man after my own heart,” Ron winks at him, but stores the conversation away for note later on, vowing to speak to Blaise about it later, and letting it go for now.

* * *

 

People zoom around Hermione as she tugs her baggy hoodie over her head and hands it to someone walking past her. The cool air of the room is a huge relief to the sweat gathering along her frown, and between her shoulder blades. Righting the white vest top where it sticks to her skin, she blows the hair from her face and ties it up behind her head, placing her hands on her hips.

“We have two hours in counting, people!” she yells, stealing an amuse bouche from a tray floating past her. “Add a touch of cinnamon to that.”

The assistant chef nods, and follows the tray toward the manor kitchen, just as Narcissa comes back inside from the garden. Hermione smiles and goes straight to her.

“I’m sorry it’s such a mess at the moment,” she says, “I promise it will look much better tonight.”

“Don’t be silly, Mia,” Narcissa rolls her eyes, taking her hands between her own and fixing her with a soft, yet stern expression. “Sit down for a moment.”

“But-”

“Mia amore, if you do not sit I will call the whole thing off right this second.”

Hermione sits.

Narcissa smirks and crouches in front of her, reaching up and placing her warm palm against the side of her face. Her heart flutters slightly under the gentle, safe touch, and for the millionth time since breakfast, Hermione is reminded of how much she loves women.

“Draco will love whatever you have done for him, you know that. And because you have done it, it will be utterly fabulous, as always.”

“I know,” Hermione nods once, her smile relaxing as she leans into Cissa’s hand, winking at her affectionately.

“I have commissioned an outfit for you-”

“Cissa-”

“Please, Mia, I have never had a daughter, and you’ve worked so tirelessly to get this party perfect, I only want to show my gratitude for everything you’ve done for my son, who perhaps does not always deserve you.”

Hermione chuckles, shaking her head and bringing her own fingers up to take Cissa’s hand from her cheek, holding them in her lap instead.

“Alright,” Hermione huffs, knowing she will get nowhere arguing with a Malfoy that’s made up their mind. “But if it’s over three hundred galleons I’m giving you some money for it.”

“Mia, at this point in my life, if anyone gives me anymore money, I will dump it in my bloody duck pond. Now drink a cup of tea, have some lunch, and I will take over from here. Your outfit is hung in my bedroom.”

Someone shoves a cup of tea in Hermione’s hands and she allows herself momentary bafflement on where it suddenly came from, before Cissa pushes back to height, pressing a kiss between Hermione’s brows.

Hermione draws in a deep breath and watches Narcissa shrug out of a brown leather jacket, righting the long, ruffled sleeves of the silky black blouse she’s wearing, embellished with a delicate pattern of gold shapes. In a rather less Narcissa-esque movement, she hooks her fingers around the belt loops of her skin fit jeans and tugs them up higher on her hips, wiggling and jumping up a bit until they’re in proper place for her to move in.

“Louis, darling, would you floo Pansy and tell her she should be here pulling her weight.”

Hermione tenses again, tipping her head back and breathing through her nose, hating everyone and everything in existence. There’s a reason she hasn’t called Parkinson in for reinforcement yet, and that is because she has been spending as little time with her party co-planner as possible. Whenever they have sat down to work out arrangements, Parkinson is always deliberately trying to distract her or wind her up.

And Hermione is _so_ on edge lately, she feels like every muscle in her body is pulled tight.

“And make sure our Mia eats something and goes to take a nap. She is not to lift a finger for anyone else for the next two hours.”

Had it not been Narcissa, Hermione would have protested and insisted that she’s fine. But she also knows how to pick her battles.

So, she drinks her tea – which is so sinfully delicious, she almost suspects Cissa has put a shot of baileys in it – eats a sandwich, and retreats to bed, just barely resisting taking a look at the outfit bag hung on the dresser.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's birthday goes off with some wonderfully delicious pining.
> 
> Leave a comment and let me know what you think.  
> Love always, Dee xx

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](https://paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it <3

* * *

 

Pansy allows her make-up artist a final ten seconds to perfect her face before she stands from the chair, thanks him, and shrugs out of the silk dressing gown she’s had on to protect her dress.

“Get me Granger,” she says, “Draco is set to arrive in twenty minutes.”

Her command is unneeded however, as Mark clears his throat and gestures his head towards the doorframe to the stairs, eyes sparkling with mirth. Pansy narrows hers and follows his glance, abruptly wanting to hex everything in sight.

She vows to murder Narcissa when she next gets the chance, because Granger looks nothing short of overwhelming.

She’s dressed in a stunning, form fitting, rose gold jumpsuit that flares at the knees in a loose, soft fabric, the whole thing shimmering and glittering elegantly in the light. The neckline plunges to midwaist, where a silver belt sown into the ensemble glints at Pansy.

“Fuck,” she hisses, turning away and drawing in a sharp breath.

“Indeed,” Mark replies, turning with her.

“Why wasn’t I shown this outfit before she wore it.”

“Co-planners don’t get to approve that sort of thing,” Mark shrugs, eyebrows raised in a delicate line, wetting his lips and grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“How the hell am I supposed to pretend I don’t want to rip that thing off of her for six hours?”

“The same way you always do,” Mark reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind Pansy’s ear. “Make her want you just as much.”

Pansy grumbles and nudges him in the ribs before nodding once, drawing in a sharp breath through her nose and painting on her best and most charming smile. Stepping into her socialite status is easy, a second nature at this point, and she doesn’t even have to like the people she’s talking to anymore; Draco is the one this is all for, the guests slowly filling up this wing of the manor are all far less cushy and snotty than their usual crowds as well. Granger has carefully selected only those whom Draco genuinely loves, trusts, and/or cares about. Which means the only characters they usually associate with in attendance are Blaise, Millicent, and in recent times, Flint.

But only because Granger has a weird connection with Oliver Wood, and Flint is dickwhipped by him. That had been a surprise and a half. Not on the point of Flint being queer, that is, but more that he swallowed his pride deep enough to allow Wood anywhere near him in the first place. The two are stubborn and patriotic to their houses with such intense ferocity, it’s a wonder they even sat in the same space long enough to learn to tolerate each other, let alone fall in love.

Of course, Pansy is quickly becoming accustomed to Slytherins and Gryffindors finding common ground and ending up tumbling into bed together. Its more common than Slytherins and Hufflepuffs these days, which is saying something, because of all the houses, the Badgers and the Snakes have always been the two that got along the best.

Its also rather a bane on Pansy’s existence; she’s been considering herself against such cliché territory since the first couple got it on. Blaise and Weasley. The least alarming, really. Blaise has always had a thing for red heads, and the Weasley girl is wrapped up in Lovegood; leaving the grieving twin, the dragon boy, the messiah complex, the married part-werewolf, or Gryffindor’s king.

Pansy knows exactly which one she would have gone for, and anyone who can make an honest man of Blaise Zabini has her respect. Even if she isn’t Ronald Weasley’s biggest fan.

Not that she hasn’t dabbled in the family of course; George is somewhat of a fixture in her life after she’d found him trying to drown himself in firewhiskey a year after the war. He’d been slumped in the alley behind The Leaky, clearly having gotten in more than one bar fight, laughing bitterly when she’d taken one look at him and told him how pathetic he was.

“Touche,” he’d said, through a mouthful of blood, looking her up and down before meeting her eyes. The rage burning in them had been so profoundly powerful, it had sent electric shocks through her body, and she’d been unable to resist dragging him up off the curb and carting him off to St Mungos. She’d paid for his rehab, forced him sober despite his protests, and practically held a wand to his head to get him to reconnect with his family. She’d apparated him there herself, to that strange, scrappy tower of a cottage, and stood stonily in the corner of the room whilst Molly had sobbed and sobbed and shouted and sobbed some more.

Pansy doesn’t see the family very often now, aside from George, Ron, and Ginny, but there’s a silent understanding. She gave them their son back, and as long as she protects him and keeps him off that curb; they will help her with whatever she needs them to. She has yet to call in the favour, and doubts she ever will, but for the moment, its calming and useful to know its there.

Granger however, she’s Draco’s. As far as having a Gryffindor in your repertoire counts. Until that morning in the coffee shop, she had never understood why Draco is so insistently protective and loving with her. That being said, spending hours with her pouring over guest lists, decorations, catering, and entertainment options, Pansy has quite taken to her.

She is so interesting. Its completely infuriating, because she could be talking about the history of spoons, and Pansy would devour every word, store it away like a precious gem.

Every accidental laugh, snort, giggle Pansy has managed to coax out of Granger has been like winning a championship quidditch game. The ridiculous and utterly stupid way she chokes on it a little, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, having never quite grown out of the insecurity regarding her teeth, despite the fact that they were shortened a long time ago. The self-assured way she moves, strong jawline and piercing eyes demanding attention, demanding compliance, demanding genuflection. To the point of being mildly egotistical and a little bit cocky.

The problem is, it’s like kryptonite for Pansy’s heart, and her knickers. And its… difficult for her, still.

She still feels so new to her identity as a gay woman. Her relationship with her own sexuality is tumultuous at best and terrifies her at worst. Not because she’s particularly… ashamed of who she is. It’s the smaller things that fuck with her head. Like this constant paranoia that she’s staring too much, wants too much and too deeply, that in some messed up way, she’s just as bad as those creepy, lecherous straight men in bars that bother and openly glare at women.

She’s been the object of that glare so many times. From when she was as young as twelve; and its repulsive, painful, damaging in so many ways. The idea that she’s making any other woman feel like that is absolutely abhorrent to her, and the reason why it had been so hard for her to accept herself, and to come out.

The confidence Pansy fiercely exudes, the flirtatious smiles and deliberately revealing cut of her clothes is a complete lie for the most part. She knows she’s attractive and distracting, as a powerful and grown woman, but it’s a wall; a farce, an armour. If they are looking at her legs, they can’t notice the way she is trying very hard not to stare back.

And despite being a self-righteous prick on occasion, Granger is far too excellent and incredible for Pansy, in every way. She’s wickedly clever, passionately in love with learning things and knowing things, stunningly and vibrantly curious, and almost savagely brave in a way that Pansy feels she can never, ever replicate. A coward, really, in comparison.

And all she’s doing right now is proving it.

Because she avoids Granger altogether.

“I’m told you helped organise this.”

Pansy does not flinch. She absolutely does not. Draco’s voice is sudden, and tugs her so abruptly from her own head that it’s a little like being dragged up from the bottom of the ocean.

“More like forced to,” she grins automatically, warmth flooding her veins at the sight of the pure happiness shining in her best friend’s eyes. She wraps her arms around him tightly, for once not caring that there are so many people who could see such a genuine display of affection, and buries her face in his neck, closing her eyes and letting his strong, solid embrace ground her back in reality.

“Thank you,” Draco murmurs against her ear. “It’s rather brilliant.”

“I did all the hard work,” she remarks, pulling back slightly, his hands remaining on her waist. “Don’t let Granger tell you any different.”

“Of course,” he humours her, smirking. “The both of you are so modest and humble. How lucky I am to have such wonderful role models around me.”

“Hush,” Pansy places a finger to his lips. “You are stealing my thunder.”

“It’s _my_ birthday.”

“Happy Birthday, darling,” she says, removing her finger and kissing his mouth softly, thumbing at his cheekbone.

“Thanks,” he replies, and his voice is a little croaky with emotion. “Now onto the matter at hand; when are you going to bite the bullet and raw the hell out of my manager?”

“I’m going to stab you,” she tells him, narrowing her eyes and drawing a dry, pure chuckle from his throat. “When are you going to get your head out of your arse and tell Potter how you feel about-”

She’s cut off when Draco presses his foot down on her’s. Hissing, she tries to remember that it’s his birthday and she can’t hex him.

“These are Valentino,” she says through gritted teeth. “You get one free pass tonight. Next time I’ll cut your leg off.”

Draco just winks at her, hand sliding around her waist and guiding her into the throng of people. He isn’t bringing her along to distract her from wanting to murder him; he’s just very jittery when it comes to socialising, and regardless of their tiff, she’s more than happy to accompany him as he makes the rounds.

Once upon a time, this is how their future would have looked. Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy, power couple of the wizarding world, the height of youthful aristocracy with the potential for endless heirs under their belt. Sharp tongued pythons hissing in the ears of the elite, fangs gracing the jugulars of their greatest assets.

As it is, Draco is in love with the half-blood that killed Voldemort, and Pansy has no wish to reproduce with anyone in the near future. Not to mention how queer they both are.

In fact, as Ginny Weasley tells her to stop trying to seduce Luna Lovegood, all whilst clearly checking out her backside, Pansy takes great joy in knowing this entire set up would have her parents rolling in their graves.

“Potter,” Pansy offers him a bright smile, letting go of Draco to place an arm around Harry’s shoulders, his own warm hand coming to rest on the curve of her waist.

“Parkinson,” Harry returns her grin, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. “You’re looking ravishing this evening.”

“I know,” Pansy says, her hand deliberately straying from Potter’s shoulder to begin absently playing with the hair at the back of his neck.

“Malfoy,” Potter nods cordially, although Pansy can feel how tense he is beneath her fingers and makes an effort not to slam their thick skulls together. “Happy Birthday.”

Draco’s eyes widen for a moment, before he skilfully masks it, nodding back.

“Thank you,” he replies. “The ladies have done a fantastic job.”

“They always do,” Potter agrees, and Pansy kind of wants to die with how fucking awkward and tense this is.

“How’s the institute treating you?”

“Great,” Potter perks up a bit, and Pansy congratulates herself. “I cut David Cameron’s hair yesterday.”

“Merlin,” she snorts, tongue coming out to dart knowingly over her bottom lip as Draco’s eyes are drawn to the movement of her fingers in Potter’s hair as she softly plays with the curls. “I hope you accidentally dyed it a sickly colour.”

“I was really fucking tempted to,” Potter admits, mirth crinkling at the corners of his emerald eyes. “Not good for cross species relations though, is it? Kingsley would have my bollocks on a plate for that, he would.”

“Disappointing,” Pansy pouts, brushing her nose against Potter’s cheekbone, knowing Draco is practically seething beneath his cool exterior. “I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be daring.”

“I’ll leave the sabotage to you lot, thanks,” Potter snorts, and she thinks it’s a testament to how naturally tactile Potter is with all of his friends that he hasn’t yet gotten embarrassed under her ministrations, or even reacted much beside gently brushing his thumb up and down in the dip of her waist. “It was quite funny though, because Luna was having a wash cut and blow dry across from him, and she spent the whole time talking very loudly about the time she and Ginny were travelling and got interrupted mid shag by a blast ended Skrewt. I’ve never seen a politician go so red before.”

Pansy lets the laughter bubble up and trip from her lips as she leans into Potter more, the absurdity of the situation fucking hilarious. Draco has chosen that moment to sip at his glass of champagne, and chokes on it, spluttering and coughing. As Pansy recovers a bit, she notices Potter’s face softening as he looks at Draco, clearly extremely pleased that he’s said something he finds funny, and simultaneously confused as to why that is.

Smirking and wiping the mirth from the corners of her eyes, she kisses Potter’s temple, patting him on the back affectionately and choosing that moment to extract herself from the conversation. There, they’ve got a head start and as she leaves, Draco throatily asks for elaboration, to which Potter happily obliges.

She’s just about to inform Narcissa of her diabolical plan, when she walks straight into someone. She’s near to snapping something virile at them but catches herself at the last second when her brain registers long afro curls and a frustratingly beautiful face fixing her with a startled expression.

Pansy automatically takes Granger by the biceps to steady them both, letting go when she realises what she’s done, as though an electric shock has run through them both.

“Steady on, Granger,” Pansy manages, forcing herself to act as natural as possible.

“Sorry,” Granger says. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“Evidently neither was I. Looks as though its going off without a hitch, though.”

Granger gathers herself and looks around, a quiet, satisfied curve to her mouth that stirs a liquid heat in Pansy’s stomach. Her insides almost ache with how much she wants to kiss that mouth, her heart thudding hard against her chest.

“I’m just so glad Draco’s enjoying himself. I was terrified it would all go to shit.”

“Myself included, believe it or not,” Pansy says, winking at her, nudging her shoulder playfully. “These things have a tendency to go wrong when there are this many young adult war veterans in one room.”

“Hmm,” Hermione says, with a humorous hint of reproach to her acceptance. “Yes, well, job well done, Parkinson. Thank you for your help.”

“Don’t mention it, darling,” she replies, and fuck if the blush rising in Grangers cheeks isn’t the most charming thing she’s ever seen. Fidgeting awkwardly, Granger ducks her head a bit and wets her lips. Pansy can’t help herself, she has to say something. And to cover the vulnerability in the confession, she makes it sound sultry, lowering her voice so that only Granger can hear her properly. “You look gorgeous, by the way.”

 “Oh – uh… well, I, um… thank you,” Hermione struggles, looking a bit like a deer caught in the headlights. Perhaps more flattered than creeped out or offended though, helping some of the taut fear crippling Pansy to dissipate. It makes room for something else, something far more dangerous; hope. A tiny flicker. Like the buzzing of an LED light coming on again for the first time in a while. Its quite possible that this might not be as unrequited as Pansy had originally assumed. “And you – you too. You look… the dress its… very-”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Granger,” Pansy smiles gently, reaching out to tuck some hair behind her ear. “It’s alright.”

“No, I – I didn’t mean… I just mean, you look good. Very good. Annoyingly good, actually. A little too good for my brain to process right now.”

That flicker of hope gets more of a stronghold and Pansy has to grit her teeth in order to stop herself from saying something stupid and cocking the whole thing up.

“Thank you,” Pansy says sincerely, smiling and placing her hand on the small of Granger’s back where the fabric dips low, and Granger’s skin, warm and soft and giving off a light strawberry scent, makes Pansy forget her own name for a moment.

“Shall we?” she gestures to the rest of the room, and Granger catches on a second later than she normally would, eyes blank for a moment before she blinks away whatever had been delaying her genius, and swallows, grinning and nodding.

“Of course,” she replies, and then they’re networking.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is hungover, and Draco needs a haircut.
> 
> Your response has been wonderful so far, I love you all.
> 
> Please leave a comment letting me know how you're finding the story, and I'm always happy to answer any questions you might have. 
> 
> Feel free to follow me on tumblr at undersummerstongue
> 
> Dee xx

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](https://paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it <3

* * *

 

Waking up the next morning is like being dragged very slowly by the hair through a pig sty. The acrimonious scent of vomit is lodged somewhere between the back of her nose, and the back of her throat, meaning it tastes and smells like someone took a shit there.

Groaning, she rolls over onto her stomach and buries her face in the pillow, hating the sun and all forms of light everywhere.

“Wakey, wakey.”

“What’s the sentencing for killing an Auror in training?”

Ron snorts, and Hermione feels the weight of his body sitting down near her hip. Cracking one eye, she angles her head down and squints at the amused glint in his expression. But he’s holding a tray of hot coffee and breakfast, effectively stamping down any murderous tendencies making their way to the surface.

“Still a good twenty years,” Ron says, “although you might make friends with a few people on the inside of those cells. I’ve put a good portion of them in there myself.”

“How are you not hungover?” she says, rolling back over and slowly sitting up, having to gulp down on the urge to throw up again as her world spins a bit and she has to holt all movement to wait for the dizziness to pass.

“Pepper up.”

“Cheating,” Hermione narrows her eyes.

“Eat your food and shut up,” Ron tells her, and she grabs at the coffee, practically inhaling it.

“Did I do anything embarrassing last night?”

Ron frowns a little, suspicion coating his gaze.

“Why, what would you consider embarrassing.”

“Ron.”

“Alright, alright. No, not particularly. Harry took you off Parkinson’s arm when you started to lose your balance, and you were half asleep in his lap by the time everyone had left. You’re a droopy drunk, remember?”

“Uggh,” she growls, running one hand through her hair. “I hate my life.”

“Don’t be so glum, it doesn’t suit you.”

Hermione flips Blaise the bird where he appears in the doorframe, leaning against it, and he feigns dramatic offense.

“I’m hurt,” he says, “I was giving you valuable advice, Granger. And here’s another one. Ask my Pansy out on a date or I will hex your hands together until you stop circling each other like two nervous little pussy cats.”

“I’m sure there’s a misogynistic rhetoric in there but I feel awful and I can’t be bothered to tell you off right now.”

Blaise just smiles and pushes off the frame, stepping into the room. He comes to stand beside them, Ron wrapping an arm around Blaise’s waist, Blaise’s hand coming to settle on Ron’s shoulder.

“Granger,” he says softly, fixing her with a gentle, more honest look. “Forget politics; forget clichés, forget your stubbornness and desire to avoid becoming another notch in the bedpost of Gryffindors falling in love with Slytherins. Grow some tits and just _ask_ for what you want.”

Hermione knows he’s right but doesn’t want to listen just yet. So, she shoves a piece of toast in her mouth instead and fixes him with a ‘take that’ glare, to which he rolls his eyes, huffs, and exasperatedly throws his hands up in the air, shaking his head and leaving the room, muttering about useless lesbians on his way out.

She spends the day with Blaise and Ron on their sofa eating junk food and drinking coffee, watching their way through Queer Eye on Netflix.

* * *

Harry walks into the Institute on Monday to find Draco Malfoy sitting in his chair.

“I don’t know!” Alexa hisses back at him when he takes her aside and demands to know how this happened. “He just walked in this morning. What do you want me to do, tell Draco Malfoy he’s not allowed in? Fuck off, Potter. Go and do your job.”

“Can’t you just fire me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alexa rolls her eyes, shoving him back into the main room. “Who would make us decent coffee?”

“I-”

“Hello, Potter.”

Harry swallows hard, grits his teeth, draws in a sharp breath through his nostrils, and turns, smiling his customer service smile and nodding.

“Malfoy,” he says, aware that his voice sounds extremely strained. “What can I do you for?”

“My hair is getting too long.”

“Yes?”

Malfoy’s brow furrows ever so slightly, and the glint of amusement in his eyes makes Harry bristle.

“I was under the impression that you are a hairdresser.”

“I-” Harry remembers abruptly that yes, he is in fact, a hair dresser and stylist. At the most prestigious salons in London. Actually, these days, people know him as a fantastic hair dresser more than they know him as the saviour as the wizarding world. Which is… exactly how he likes it. “Yes.”

“Good,” Draco claps his hands together and smirks, crossing one leg over the other and sitting back in the leather chair slightly, wetting his lips and cocking his head to the left. “Lets get to it then.”

Harry manages to stutter out a question about how Malfoy wants it styled, but he just says he can do what he wants with it. Which is even more confusing, because everyone sort of writes off how intimate cutting someone’s hair can be. Usually clients like to close their eyes and relax when they hand themselves over, and Harry uses a lot of sharp, delicate equipment. Not to mention a haircut is something very personal; not often seeming like a big thing, but it alters the appearance of a person’s face shape, their personality. However it ends up, there’s two weeks of growth between an unwanted cut and normality.

Malfoy is a public figure. He gets photographed at least three times a week, and he has to be seen by all of his business partners and associates all day every day. If Harry fucks it up, or makes the wrong decision, he has no doubt Malfoy’s lawyers would take him for all his money.

Eventually, though, he stops faffing about and remembers he’s good at his job, that he saved the fucking world. Cutting Draco Malfoy’s hair should be a walk in the park.

Armed with some shearers and a hairband, he parts a good amount and ties it up on top, poking his tongue out at Malfoy, who raises his eyebrows, alarmed and clearly already regretting his decision.

“Suddenly remembering all the shit you pulled at Hogwarts, huh,” Harry smirks, as he sticks a long clip in to make sure its out of the way, then gets to work snipping the hair at the bottom of the neck.

“I’m not worried, a cock up would be more than your life is worth.”

“Oh, but it would be so worth it to see the look on your face,” Harry’s smirk grows into a grin and he can feel himself relaxing, stepping into his confidence like a second skin.

“Potter.”

“Alright,” Harry sighs, placing his scissors down and placing his hands on Malfoy’s shoulders, keeping them there despite the harsh flinch of the muscles under his palms. He waits for Malfoy to get used to the contact, and squeezes gently, his first ever attempt at comforting him. “You’re going to have to trust me. I know what I’m doing. I’m assuming you’ve read my reviews on TripAdvisor.”

“What the fuck is a TripAdvisor?”

Harry can’t help the tiny snort crawling up his throat, and he purses his lips, trying not to mock Malfoy for the flush rising to his cheeks.

“All you need to know is that I wouldn’t be working here if I wasn’t good at what I do. So maybe just… have a bit more respect for me than assuming I would still let childhood grudges get in the way of that.”

Malfoy looks at him in the mirror for a few seconds, seemingly deciding on something before drawing a discreet breath and nodding.

“Fine,” he says, flourishing his wrist. “Whatever.”

Harry winks at him in the mirror and picks the scissors up again.

He works for about an hour, whilst Malfoy taps away on his phone, strangely unconcerned that if Harry tried, he could read everything he’s doing over his shoulder. He doesn’t though. He stays focused, an image in mind slowly taking shape as he plugs in the shavers and selects the number he wants. Carly brings them both a coffee half way through, and Malfoy thanks her, taking his eyes off his screen to look at her directly, his smile genuine.

When he takes the clip and band out of the top, Malfoy still doesn’t glance in the mirror, and Harry assumes it because he only wants to see the finished product.

He keeps the length on top, just tidying it up and letting the natural wave stay as it is, styling it over to one side. He checks that its even, and removes the cape from Malfoy’s shoulders, brushing off the t-shirt he’s wearing.

Harry’s still getting used to that. Malfoy in black jeans and a white t-shirt. He’s so accustomed to black turtlenecks and impeccably pressed suits.

He suspects Hermione has something to do with that wardrobe change.

“All done,” Harry rubs his hands together and straightens his back, lifting his hands above his head and stretching, body rejoicing as his bones pop back into their proper places.

Malfoy locks his phone and looks, face blank for the two seconds it takes for his mind to catch up. His lips part and his eyes widen, and Harry starts to panic until Malfoy's mouth twitches and gradually curves.

“Hmm,” he says, leaning forward, taking it in. He reaches up, carefully running his hand through the hair atop his head. “What is this?”

“Its called an undercut,” Harry tells him. “Its meant for people with sharper jawlines and more distinct bone structure.”

“Nice to know you noticed.”

“Piss off,” Harry says, too drained by the nature of the situation to bother being embarrassed. He crosses his arms over his chest and shifts his weight to one hip, waiting for a further reaction.

“You may have outdone yourself, Potter,” Malfoy says, his voice coated with pleased surprise, sitting back again and sniffing.

“I believe that’s the first compliment you’ve ever given me.”

“Harry, can you- oh,” Alexa pauses as she approaches, breath catching in her throat. “Oh, wow. That’s – see! Your instincts are never wrong.”

Harry tucks his chin back, his upper lip falling over his bottom one, feeling very smug. Malfoy doesn’t even look annoyed, just mildly amused.

“Your eyes are beautiful, Mr Malfoy. I didn’t detect that before,” Alexa tells him.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, but he’s looking at Harry directly, pinning him in place. Harry feels a little disarmed now, not wanting to break the gaze, but struggling as always to relinquish the upper hand. Malfoy looks away first, which is even more peculiar. “I wonder, when does Mr Potter here take his lunch break?”

“Usually whenever he wants to,” Alexa says. “He works miracles, he can go for a fag and a coffee at his leisure.”

“Excellent,” Malfoy remarks, and Harry narrows his eyes, suspicion growing in his gut, making the back of his neck prickle. Malfoy stands from the chair, taking his jacket from the hook and shrugging into it. Harry nearly has a minor heart attack. It’s a whitewash denim shearling, the cut slightly oversized. He looks….

Jesus this is not happening. Harry swallows down on the stupor setting in and stands straight again.

“Have lunch with me, Potter.”

“Uh, no,” he says, like that should be bloody obvious. “I’m at work, Malfoy. And I cut your hair; I didn’t give you a personality transplant.”

“I’m aware,” Malfoy says, his posture strikingly looser than when he entered this morning. Good cuts tend to do that to people; make them a bit bubbly and high for a few hours, riding the wave of aplomb until they crash and sleep through the night. Its like getting a shiny new toy. “Have lunch with me.”

“You might get somewhere if you asked, instead of telling,” Alexa pipes in, a sly grin glittering in her eyes.

“No, he won’t,” Harry says, because the whole thing is completely absurd and absolutely not happening.

“Oh, come now, Potter. We got on alright the other night, didn’t we?”

“It was your birthday, I was being nice.”

“Merlin forbid. I have a few hours cleared in my schedule, help me fill it.”

Harry really, really wants to say no. He really does. But his stomach is rumbling at the thought of food, and regardless of who Malfoy is; the part of his brain that hasn’t been out for food with a frustratingly attractive man in about six months is winning out.

“One hour,” he says, through gritted teeth. “One hour. You’re paying, and we are going somewhere very expensive.”

“Of course,” Malfoy grins. Fully grins. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen him properly grin. His blue eyes light up, made all the more prominent by the cut, the colour of the jacket, and the lighting of the room. He is beyond annoyed that its so ridiculously pretty.

“Have fun,” Aliyah says, and Harry flips her the bird as they make to leave, grabbing his black denim jacket on the way. “I’ll sweep the hair.”

“I’m going to kill you in your sleep,” Harry mouths at her before the door closes behind them, and that’s it, he’s having lunch with Draco Malfoy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION: We have officially entered nsfw territory. What's a little fantasising about fingering your frenemy on a plane? And a sweet phone conversation. 
> 
> Please leave a comment letting me know what you think, it really helps inspire me to keep writing. Sorry this update took a little longer, I'm suffering with a bit of writers block.
> 
> Another friendly reminder that you can follow me on tumblr at undersummerstongue if you prefer to ask questions from over there. 
> 
> Thank you as always.  
> Dee xx

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](https://paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it <3

* * *

 

“What did you do to my boss?” Hermione demands as she nurses a bottle of wine.

“I cut his hair!” Harry squeaks down the phone at her. “Some warning might be nice next time, by the way.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she rolls her eyes. She turns the TV down to a low volume so she can hear him better, and sticks her fork in a pork ball, taking a chunk out of it with her teeth and making a small noise of pleasure. She’s been on her feet all day; they’re in the middle of an investment agreement with a muggle company who’s building they’re trying to buy and turn into an orphanage, and with Draco out of commission all morning, she’s been in business meetings from 8am.

“Me, dramatic?” Harry exclaims. “He took me to _lunch_ , Hermione. I ate Poulet Printanier with Draco Malfoy.”

“It doesn’t get any less real the more you say it, you know,” Hermione remarks, amusement tingling pleasantly in her tummy. The simple pleasure of no pressure and no responsibility making her a little light headed and warm. “Anyway. You didn’t answer my question. I just got off the phone with him, and he sounds like he’s had a cheering charm put on him.”

“He… liked his haircut.”

“Okay?”

“Have you seen him today?”

“No.”

“It looks good.”

Hermione purses her lips, laughing softly and shaking her head.

“Harry,” she says. “Please just admit you have a crush on him and put us all out of our misery.”

“Hermione,” Harry replies in a matter of fact tone. “I do not have a crush on him. And can we please talk about something else? How did the meeting go?”

She sighs and pushes her hair from her fact. Its still weird for her to get used to Ron and Harry actually asking her about her day, and her work. They’ve been far more attentive since the war, but its still a little strange.

“You would think, considering we’re trying to buy the building to house the orphans of war heroes, they would be more co-operative.”

“Dicktwats.”

Yes, Hermione agrees, they are. It doesn’t help that the men she’s been having conversations with all day are casual racists and upfront misogynists. From the offset, they had been making comments about her legs and passive aggressively mentioning how Draco allows her to meet business partners with her hair looking so unprofessional.

“One of them assumed I was a waitress.”

She can feel Harry seething from the other side of the line, but at this point she’s just resigned.

“He had the shock of a lifetime when I sat down opposite him and presented him with a pack of spreadsheets and contracts and told him I’d have a vodka martini on the rocks if he was ready to sign on the dotted line.”

Its Harry’s turn to start laughing, and she can hear him clapping as he puts her on loudspeaker and starts pottering around his kitchen.

“Aside from the D word, how was your day?”

“Eh,” Harry replies. “Slow. Niggly.”

“Anyone interesting come in?”

Harry launches off into a tale of how it took him three hours to get Lavender Brown’s hair the way she wanted it, and Hermione just listens, the sound of his voice lulling her into a sleepy state of mitigation. She eats most of her food and places the plate on the coffee table, laying back on her sofa and letting him talk.

“Hermione?”

“Hm? Oh – shit, sorry, Harry I was – I swear I was paying attention-”

“Babe, go to bed.”

The soft, fond way he speaks makes her want to cry, and that’s a sign that she needs to do what she’s told, because she’s getting the tired tears.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shh, don’t be silly. Your day was much harder than mine. Go and rest.”

“Okay,” she breathes out. “Okay, I’m – hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“What was – did you say Ginny is going on holiday?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, and somewhere at the back of Hermione’s mind, she swears she heard something she’s supposed to be panicking about. “So are you. She booked tickets for a week in Santa Eulalia next month. You, Ginny, Luna, and Pansy. Shit, did… have I made you freak out?”

Hermione is simply too exhausted to call Ginny and yell at her right now, and its almost half past midnight. Instead, she just pinches the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb and lets out a long, rattily breath.

“No, its fine. That’s a problem for tomorrow. Good night.”

“Night, angel. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

* * *

 

Turns out, Ginny had already talked to Draco about the holiday, and he’d already gotten Blaise to stand in for her a month in advance so she can brief him on how to handle her daily tasks for the week she’s away.

Needless to say, she’s fuming and helpless and apparently being forced into going to another country, and all of her friends have been conspiring so that she can’t refuse. Which, alright, its sweet in a big way because she hasn’t been on holiday for a while and her job is stressful and she needs to ‘let loose’. However, Ginny is also clueless if she thinks Hermione is going to be able to relax knowing she’s spending a week with Pansy Parkinson, who lately is everywhere.

Draco has actually brought her on board to help set up the orphanage, so she’s working logistics and interior design, but it still feels like its deliberate. Parkinson is at the office whenever Hermione is, she’s constantly calling her to get ‘final say’ on fabrics and costs and business cash flow. Its as though Draco has told Parkinson that she is to run everything through Hermione, and not him, even though she’s _his_ friend.

As much as Hermione is… warming, to Parkinson, she is also constantly trying to focus on what she’s saying instead of her pretty lips and the transfixing way she moves her hands when she’s talking about something she’s focused on. Its maddening and unprofessional and every time she’s tried to bring it up with Draco, he’s just smirked and shrugged at her and told her he trusts her decision making.

Which would be all well and good if she wasn’t becoming increasingly aware that it’s a set up. Her friends want her to end up in some sort of romantic fairy-tale with Pansy Parkinson and she is far too stubborn to let it happen. Fuck them all.

So that’s how she ends up sat in Starbucks, having gone through baggage weigh-in and security, waiting to board an airplane at Heathrow airport, with Pansy Parkinson approaching her table.

And Hermione wants to throw something.

Because Parkinson is dressed in a tiny flowy summer dress, her hair haphazardly pulled up behind her head, little wisps of golden brown falling to frame her face, a bright spark of excitement in her eyes. And she’s _not wearing a bra_. The neckline dips to midwaist and Hermione can see her tits through the material, the nipples obvious and uneven, and positively _beautiful_.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Parkinson remarks as she dumps her carry on down beside her feet and sips at an iced coffee. “I thought we were going on holiday, Granger, why do you look so wound up?”

“I’ve been manhandled into this,” she says, glaring, although there is a low buzz of anticipation warming her blood, and the thought of warm air and hot sun and glittering, clear water is making her a little giddy.

“You’re so dramatic,” Parkinson smiles gently, and Hermione might feel herself preening under the reassuring nature of her gaze. “Maybe you should try and enjoy this, Granger? Its not like you don’t deserve a break.”

Hermione knows that. Objectively she does. But work is her life. Even just a week out of it is like… stepping into someone else’s.

“I’m going to try,” she says, just as her phone vibrates and Ginny and Luna turn up.

“How goes, lads?” Ginny says, bending to press a kiss to the corner of Hermione’s mouth. “You look gorgeous, as ever.”

“Thank you,” Hermione smiles. “You both look very excited.”

“We are,” Luna says. “I am particularly excited to visit a wizarding monument from the seventies. Allegedly it was built by Bartholomew the Destroyer to store his collection of homoerotic nudist art, but others say he bred a creature in the basement that could spit yogurt.”

Parkinson chokes on her drink, and Hermione makes eye contact with her, pursing her lips and trying not to laugh at the alarmed look taking over her face.

“Good old Barty,” Hermione says, making Parkinson gag a bit more and splutter, trying to get her breath back. Ginny just grins and kisses at Luna’s temple.

“We all ready, then? Boarding is in twenty minutes so we have to be on time.”

“We could just… stay here?”

“Come now, Mia,” its Hermione’s turn to try and cover a yelp of surprise at the pet name Parkinson uses. “Don’t be so difficult. We’re going to have fun.”

“ _You’re_ going to have fun. I’m going to sunbathe and read. And visit this… yogurt basement with Luna.”

“Excellent,” Ginny interrupts. “Let’s go.”

Hermione reluctantly lifts her D&G carry on from the floor to her shoulder, standing and awkwardly manoeuvring around Parkinson, who deliberately stands at an angle where they have to brush past each other. Scowling, Hermione quickens her step, and before she knows it, they’re boarding the plane.

Its only when they’re about to take off that she notices Parkinson, who has conveniently been seated beside her, is making herself small, her spine tight, jaw clenched, hands placed jaunt in her lap. Before she can stop herself, Hermione reaches over and clasps their fingers together. Parkinson flinches, but relaxes after a second, eyes wide and terrified.

“More people die walking in the street every day than they do flying.”

“I thought you hated it.”

“On brooms with nothing around you to fall on and far too much direct speed, yes,” Hermione smiles as reassuringly as possible. “But first-class cabin on a regulated, well operated container with access to food and water and a very comfortable seat? I’ve always loved it, for as long as I can remember.”

In fact, the only thing making her heart beat faster than normal now, is the brush of her knuckles against Parkinson’s soft, bare thighs, and the warm clutch of her long, manicured fingers intertwined with her own. That’s more exhilarating than being thousands of feet in the air over hundreds of cities and moorland.

She’s so very tempted to loosen the grip, to drag her own fingertips upward, gentle and slow past the hem of Parkinson’s dress, to touch coarse, dark hair and dip in between folds, listen to the gasp trip from her beautiful lips, feel slickness gather and watch her forget all about being afraid.

But she simply swallows, squeezing her hand once before letting go before her palms get noticeably sweaty and her face flushes too brightly.

_Not today, Granger. Not today._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We land in Es Canar.
> 
> Let me know what you think, comments really help me along through writers block. 
> 
> Thank you, as always.  
> Dee xxx

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](https://paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it <3

* * *

 

Hermione mostly sleeps through the flight. Three hours isn’t long, but she suspects she’ll be dragged straight to Jacaranda Lounge for drinks and other shenanigans, and she did work until midnight the previous evening.

Before she knows it, Ginny is shaking her awake softly, handing her the carry on, having already cleared the area of snack wrappers and empty water bottles. Drawing in a deep breath, Hermione nods her thanks and rubs at her eyes, muttering a quick excuse to Parkinson before going to the loo.

She changes into a pair of high waisted denim shorts and a cami, and ties her curls up behind her head, by a deep longing to feel the sun on her skin and the breeze of the terminal, the solid ground beneath her feet.

Ibiza airport is smaller and so much less intimidating than Heathrow, and the people have kinder faces, brighter eyes, wear comfier clothing.

That first moment of realising she has to push her Tommy sunglasses over her eyes is like the world slotting into place, and the first breath of mildly stuffy air is what nudges her muscles to relax fully, a smile really charming her lips.

Parkinson’s hand in the small of her back over the thin fabric of her top is so nice and guiding, Hermione just lets herself move, her eyes following the dusty patches of barren land as they drive through the Ibiza back streets, making their way to Santa Eulalia coach station before taking a taxi to the hotel.

They’ve been lucky enough to book rooms directly in a row on the fourth floor of Hotel Caribe. The glittery marble surfaces of the lobby shine and the low chatter of very happy families flitting in and out of the glass doors to the large pool is incredibly charming. Something in Hermione’s stomach flutters as her curls brush over her cheekbones and she checks in, laughing at something the beautiful lady behind the counter says.

This is her favourite place in the world.

They came here as a larger group shortly after the deatheater trials had ended. They’d all just moved into new flats dotted around London, and were exhausted and overloaded, needing simplicity and zero responsibility.

George had spent most of the time quietly following them around, or sitting solemnly under the canopies near the bar, but it had been wonderful to have him there all the same.

Harry had been in his element, having never been abroad, or enjoyed anything outside the boundaries of the occasionally pleasant British climate. This quiet, soft corner of Ibiza had been a sanctuary for him the second they arrived, and Hermione remembers feeling joy budding in her chest where sadness had taken up what felt like permanent residence at the time.

She remembers lounging on the scorching sand with Harry between her legs whilst she applied sun cream to the brown of his spine and braided his curls back from his face. This was where they had thrown caution to the wind and bared all their ugly scars in public for the first time, having had no choice. It had been die of sunstroke or shed as much clothing as possible under the unforgiving sun.

She remembers Ron burning almost instantly, and Ginny desperately caking both her own, and George, Ron and Charlie’s freckles in factor fifty. She remembers laughter and the cold, wet grip of cider cans against her sweaty palms. She remembers breathless, exhilarating laughter that was revolutionarily healing, so soon after such devastating tragedy.

She remembers the whip of the wind in her hair on the glass bottom boat tour and Parvati getting sea sick, and the golden glow that made white pristine and colours more vibrant and lively than she even knew possible.

She remembers the setting sun and the thrum of night life, the bass of easy listening dance music, and the cooler sand beneath her feet as they took long, glittering walks along the beach of an evening.

She remembers George taking her hand on the last night, when they’d been sat near the shore, and being so touched when he had told her he would hold this week in his heart forever.

Es Canar is magical, she knows; a paradise that owns a very important piece of who she is now. And all at once she is so incredibly grateful that Ginny – the little minx – conspired to get her here now, after nearly half a decade of avoiding a holiday.

The first thing Hermione does when she gets through the door to her room is rush across it and open the balcony doors, swinging them wide and standing there for a moment, hands on her hips, eyes closed, just feeling the sun on her skin. Below her, splashes of children jumping and being told off by the lifeguards fill the air and she grins, taking this moment for herself.

Then she unpacks, and ruffles the sheets of her bed slightly, so it doesn’t look so flat and uninviting. Showering briefly and brushing her teeth to get rid of the iciness left by the plane here, she dresses again and grabs her bag and keys, before locking up and heading downstairs.

Flashing her all-inclusive pass, the sweet man behind the bar recognises her even after four years, and puts a little extra strawberry daiquiri in her plastic cup.

It’s a wonder that she’s even managed to find a sunbed at this time of day, but she does, laying her towel out on it and stripping down to her bikini, reapplying sun cream in problem areas, and breaking out her kindle.

This, she thinks, is heaven on earth if there is to be one.

It’s a testament to how deeply this place calms her, that she doesn’t feel anxiety curl in her gut when Parkinson approaches with Ginny and Luna in tow, already in nothing but a black two piece and a black, translucent kaftan that falls to the tops of her thighs.

Instead, Hermione allows herself to feel the urge to lick over her soft tummy, accepting it for the first time in months with a soft sigh of resignation.

“Starting without us,” Ginny narrows her eyes playfully as she adjusts the umbrella over their sunloungers, gesturing to Hermione’s drink on the small plastic table between them.

“Its hot, and I need alcohol if I am to forget your stinging betrayal.”

“Drama queen,” Ginny rolls her eyes, sitting at the end of the bed where Luna has already situated herself, weaving her hair into a French plait and humming a One Direction song.

“What are you reading?” Parkinson gestures to Hermione’s kindle, and for a second she feels the need to retreat and refuse to answer. She’s only ever been made fun of for her reading material over the years, particularly by the Slytherins. She still struggles trusting Draco before she remembers he’s one of her best friends.

“Its called We Go Around In The Night And Are Consumed By Fire. Its about lesbian gangs in Manchester.”

“Its alright,” Parkinson replies, an absent tone to her voice that tells Hermione she’s very much not as nonchalant about having already read it than she’s letting on.

“It’s a bit difficult to get into properly. I’m enjoying it so far though.”

“Its… graphic,” Parkinson says. “Unapologetic and sad, but powerful all the same.”

Hermione smiles and nods, getting over the surprise quickly and sitting back.

“After your done, read Kissing The Witch by Emma Donoghue.”

“On my list,” Hermione taps her screen and Parkinson blinks, a smile curling her mouth. She purses her lips and puts her sunglasses on, bending one of her knees, leaving the other leg outstretched. She’s even more agonisingly gorgeous under the sun. There’s a smattering of hair poking out the top of her black bikini bottoms and Hermione has to inhale sharply and avert her eyes, returning to her book with her heart beating a little faster in her chest.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating going up again! First scene features a sleepy morning orgasm so if you wanna skip it, go ahead. If you could reblog my post for this fic on tumblr, that would be great! http://undersummerstongue.tumblr.com/post/174977640932/undersummerstongue-wear-your
> 
> You guys have been so kind to me so far and I can't thank you enough. I'm really enjoying writing the next chapter as well, so look out for that one. 
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Dee xx
> 
> P.S I've had a few people mention my other writing too, so I just thought I'd mention I actually have a novel published on Amazon Kindle. Its called The White Edge by Deanna Read, and its a paranormal romance about two young girls who fall in love.

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](https://paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it <3

* * *

 

Pansy wakes the following morning with the sun on her face. Its creeping in delicately through the gap in the awful hotel issue curtains, warming her skin and adding to the thin layer of sweat already gathering from the temperate night.

She lays there for a few moments, just enjoying the sound of birds chirping and the mums already placing their towels on sunloungers near the pool. It occurs to her then that Granger is right behind her, only a wall between them, curled up in a thin blanket, possibly still asleep, possibly awake and waiting for the motivation to move.

Pansy closes her eyes again as the image of Granger floods her mind, wrapped in a loose vest and pyjama shorts, hair a mess around her head, curls tendrilling on the pillow, teeth nibbling on her plump lips, sun casting a golden glow over her brown skin.

Without registering it, Pansy’s fingers have wondered down over her own stomach, a fluttering causing the breath to catch softly in her throat. Despite knowing this will make it even harder to look Granger in the eye, she dips her fingers lower, eyes going closed again as she swallows and that thrill of anticipation seconds before the first touch rushes through her, a gentle moan tripping from her mouth.

She starts slow, bringing the gathering slickness up to wet her clit, teeth biting down on her bottom lip, letting the blood flow downward and make everything more sensitive. Rubbing circles around it, her other hand moves to palm at her own chest, tugging at her nipples, back arching up as they harden under the attention.

When its not uncomfortable to put pressure down, she moves her thumb up and down over the bundle of nerves between the folds, turning her head to the pillow to muffle the involuntary noise threatening to give her away through the thin walls.

And fuck it feels so good.

So good, but not quite enough. What she really wants isn’t possible right now, and it physically aches, as her movements quicken and that delicious, desperate pressure starts to build in the bottom of her stomach, two fingers sliding back down to push inside, drawing an almost pained cry.

Somewhere, she can hear the sound of the water crashing against the beach from the seaside down the road, and she has to click her fingers on her free hand to spell the balcony doors open, the heat simply too much to bear.

Then she’s falling over the edge, every single muscle in her body singing and shuddering with release.

“Jesus fucking christ,” she gasps, riding the waves of those last few quakes, before feeling the bonelessness settling in, covered in sweat and her own orgasm.

* * *

 

As she kind of expected, Hermione’s week of sun and sand doesn’t last very long.

She turns her phone on briefly whilst getting dressed for an all-inclusive breakfast and finds over twenty voicemails that need listening to. It becomes apparent after the fourth one that regardless of Draco’s insistence that she stay out of work affairs, her intervention is needed.

He’s normally alright dealing with it on his own. He is, of course, CEO of Malfoy LTD. And is heavily involved in most aspects of his own multi-national business. However, so many of their clients and contacts are used to Hermione personally handling them, and she knows she booked Draco’s morning off today, meaning he’s still asleep whilst the company they’re buying the building for the orphanage from, are claiming bankruptsy.

She immediately grabs at the secret, spare laptop she’s bought with her, and shoves it in her bag, simply pulling her hair back and rushing downstairs.

All through breakfast, she sits with her legs jiggling and her phone burning a hole in the pocket of her denim shorts, barely managing to stop herself from tapping out itchy patterns across the table top. She waffles down a plate of fresh fruit, ignoring the sideways glances Ginny is sending her and pretending to be very interested in the bottom of her coffee cup.

Ginny and Luna announce that they’re going sight seeing, and Hermione knows she doesn’t successfully convince them she’s going to pass and spend the day sunbathing and relaxing, but Luna very helpfully drags Ginny off anyway.

She finds a spot out on the stone balcony near the indoor pool bar under some large umbrellas, and quickly sets up a station on a table she commandeers, glaring everyone who dares to try and sit with her away.

Deciding that trying to get a hold of Draco is a last resort, she connects to the hotel Wi-Fi and pulls up her emails and several of the contracts she has copied to an external hard drive.

She’s halfway through negotiating a deal with Malfoy LTD solicitors, when Parkinson sits opposite her and slides a bottle of water across. Speaking a mile a minute over the phone, Hermione narrows her eyes, but Parkinson looks unaffected and just nods toward the drink again, a firm but somehow aloof command that sees Hermione doing as she’s told for the first time in about four years.

“I’m looking at an NDA right now that says they are legally required to inform us of any proceedings that send them into potential liquidation, or if their offshore accounts reach minus numbers.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Granger, but there is very little that can be achieved from a court case in terms of financial reparations. The company are completely penniless.”

“Marshall, I’m not looking to sue them. I want them held accountable. Those contracts need to go through today, or I’m coming home and we’re going to put them all in prison cells.”

“If anything, that will cost us money. Whilst we have that in abundance, it would be pointless and time consuming. I’m in talks this minute with the head of the firm, but he’s a difficult man to get a hold of.”

“Slimy, racist piece of shite,” Hermione growls, and Parkinson almost chokes on her drink, lips pursed in a half assed attempt to keep from bursting into laughter, eyes sparkling with mirth, an impressed expression animating her face. Drawing in a deep breath to ground herself and trying not to start laughing with her, Hermione barely holds off a smirk of her own, and instead buckles down.

“Alright,” she says, making her tone sharp and authoritative. “Patch me into an email with Parker and tell him I don’t care if his wife is giving birth, I want those contracts pushed through filing in the next half an hour. We are going to own that building by lunch time or Merlin help me, they’ll be sending me to Azkaban. We get the Aurors involved by eleven if it’s a no go, and I will join the god damn search party for that intolerable little arsehole myself. Let’s see him try and hide from me.”

She hangs up and sits back for a minute, drawing in a deep breath and wiping the sweat from her brow. Grabbing at the water, Hermione downs half the bottle, only just holding back a relieved moan as it trickles down her throat.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Of course,” Parkinson nods. “Do you think it will be alright?”

“Draco is determined to have this building free for us to renovate by the end of this week,” Hermione replies, trying to mentally prepare herself for calling him.

“Why is this man holding onto it so tight?”

“He’s been in deep trouble for ages. This is one of the last things he legitimately owns. Also, he’s stubborn and doesn’t want to hand the project over to me. I even offered to step down from it to make the process easier but Draco insists I’m the best person for the job.”

“You are,” Parkinson agrees simply, like its not one of the very few open compliments she’s ever given her, like its commonplace.

“Thank you,” she says again.

“C’mon,” Pansy tells her, closing her laptop momentarily and ignoring her protests as she takes her hands and brings her to standing height. “We’re going for a walk, and when we come back you can do all the shouting down that phone that you want. But this is your holiday and I’ll be damned if I let you ruin it for yourself.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A longer one this time! 
> 
> Totally drarry centric. I really, really, really loved writing this chapter. I think you guys are going to love it too. 
> 
> Thank you for your support <3  
> Dee xx
> 
> P.S a reminder that you can follow me on tumblr at undersummerstongue too, I'm always wanting new mutuals.

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](https://paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it <3

* * *

 

Draco is nervous.

In general, he’s usually always slightly nervous about one thing or another. He was a nervy kid; living with Lucius Malfoy would have instilled a certain amount of anxiety in any child, let alone the purebred heir to a large fortune built on racist blood money. 

The therapist Hermione has had him seeing for a while now has made it easier, and he’s normally very good at hiding it. One has to, if one is to be the most intimidating person in a room of bloodsucking parasites. But right now, he’s _observably_ nervous, which… is not good. Particularly because he is stood on the first floor of Harry Potter’s apartment building holding a bottle of uncharacteristically cheap wine.

He’d gone to get one of the very expensive, old bottles from the cellar earlier in the day, but decided against it. As ancient and prestigious as the Potter family is, the youngest and only remaining member doesn’t really know all that much about his namesakes, and apparently doesn’t care to learn.

So, not wanting to give Potter another reason to make fun of his aristocratic tastes, and also because he doesn’t wish to make him uncomfortable, Draco had ignored the slightly judgmental gaze of his house elf, Ellie, and popped down to the local co-op. Black Tower was the best bet, as the rather confused cashier had advised him; under a tenner, fruity, with a nice kick.

He draws in a deep breath in a desperate attempt to calm his heart beat, and dries his sweaty palm on the thigh of his tight jeans, swallowing on a dry throat and wondering if it would be socially inexcusable for him to magic the cork out and down the entire bottle before he approaches reception.

“Mr Malfoy,” his window of alcoholism closes as the lady at the desk smiles and waves him over. “Mr Potter is expecting you. If you could just sign in here.”

He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting but it isn’t a large foyer with framed art he actually recognises, sofas placed around a coffee table for visitors, and a light scent of lavender blowing with just the right touch of air con.

“Alana,” he greets, forcing his voice steady, wetting his lips and breathing out as discreetly as possible. He leans against the desk, accepting the pen she offers him. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re very welcome,” she replies. And even her voice is comforting; its polite. It has that customer servicey vibe to it without being robotic. Her expression is warm and inviting and her eyes are down to earth, a cheeky glint under the amorous lighting. Not to mention the fact that with the job and the general look of the room, it would be more fitting for her to be dressed in a pressed suit and heels. But she’s wearing a pair of light pink flares, green converse high tops, and a t-shirt that reads ‘girls’ in red calligraphy. She has a gel pen tucked behind her ear, and her hair is cropped short in a buzz cut, dyed blonde.

“He’s in flat twelve on the third floor,” she tells him.

“You’re not going to ask for ID?”

“The entrance is spelled to get rid of glamour and transfiguration incantations and potions the second you step through,” she shrugs. He doesn’t really want to like her; he doesn’t like many people after only a few seconds of knowing them, but she has something about her. A casual confidence. “Be nice to him. He’s nervous.”

“Hm,” Draco sighs, feeling a little more relaxed already. “I resent the notion that I would be anything but delightful.”

“Of course,” she says, a hint of playful sarcasm to her tone. “Have a good night.”

“And yourself,” he nods, smiling despite himself as the lift opens and she gestures towards it.

The anxiety stays at a more manageable hum as he watches the lift doors close behind him, and he makes a note to ask Potter about any other mood altering enchantments on the building later on.

“Its open,” a voice calls from inside the flat as he knocks, and his tummy flutters when its accompanied by a sudden barking and shuffling. He’s met immediately by the sight of a golden retriever stood at the end of the short hall revealing a large, open plan living room and kitchen. Raising his eyebrows, he hangs his jacket up and slips out of the YSL Chelsea boots on his feet, pursing his lips and taking one more deep breath before stepping forward. He crouches in front of the dog, intrigued by how its just… stood there, brown eyes observing him. He holds a hand out in front of its snout, sensing that it isn’t the sort of animal that enjoys being touched without consent.

It nudges his palm briefly, sniffing, then presses its head against it. Draco can’t help the smile that returns to his mouth, spending a few seconds stroking it and scratching behind its ears before pushing back to height, not wanting to bother it more than it will tolerate.

When he finally looks up, Potter is leant against the kitchen counter, a slightly baffled and impressed expression on his face.

“What?”

“She doesn’t… you’re very lucky she didn’t chew your hand off.”

Draco has some of his curiosity sated then. Alright, so the dog is not usually that mild mannered even when its boundaries are respected. Which means he’s been somewhat accepted into the house. Interesting.

Its then that he gets a proper look of his surroundings.

Once again, its not necessarily what he’d been expecting.

Everything is _soft_. So soft. The floor, he realises now, is all fluffy white carpets, even in the kitchen. There’s dark purple faux mink draped over a large corner sofa in the lounge, the fabrics all velour and big, puffy cushions. There’s jewelled accents as well, studded and sparkling around some of the picture frames, whilst others are tarnished brass, photos full of laughing faces and joyful embraces.

“Are you done gawping or are you going to hold onto that bottle of wine for the whole night?”

Draco blinks, feeling his brain coming back online. Rolling his eyes and swallowing on a slightly dry throat, he shoves the wine at Potter’s chest, gesturing vaguely at the oven.

“Ah,” Potter says, putting the wine in the fridge to cool and pulling out two cans of lager in its place. “Hope you like chicken kievs and chips from Iceland, otherwise you’re just gonna have to go hungry.”

“Really, you could have at least stretched to Sainsbury’s.”

“Piss off,” Potter snorts, and Draco lets out a small inclination of relief that he made the first snarky remark of the night with no snags. “We can’t all be Waitrose hoes.”

“You’re wealthier than me, Potter,” Draco accepts the stool Potter offers him at the white marble island, and cracks the can. “Its not my fault you don’t know how to spend it.”

“Decorating this flat cost more than the money I’ve spent in my entire lifetime,” Potter looks at him matter of factly.

“Its rather beautiful,” Draco admits. “I was expecting something darker.”

“I’m not a fifteen-year-old emo,” Potter snorts. “My life’s been kinda harsh and rough. I like soft things.”

“Ah, that’s why you’re so sexually frustrated.”

“I’m putting a complaint into Ofcom.”

Draco rolls his eyes, snorting and swigging at his drink, looking around a little more. He notices something new with every second. Like the velvet pouffe that’s open next to the television stand, overflowing with an excess of paperwork that doesn’t look like its been touched in at least a week. The drying towels and shirts on a clothes horse in the corner next to a large bookcase full of tomes with a surface layer of dust on the top shelf.

Its tidy, mostly, which is also quite surprising. Draco was kind of expecting mess everywhere; but this is organised. Everything has its place, but its not obsessive or overly meticulous. It makes him feel a little self-conscious if he’s being honest; his own place is spotless at all times, even though he isn’t really at home very much. If the situation was reversed, and Potter had visited Draco’s apartment, it would be pretty bare and unlived in. Minimalist furniture with modernist furnishings. Very little décor.

“I met your receptionist.”

“Ah yes, Alana,” Potter smirks to himself. “She’s lovely. Makes the quiet around here more bearable. Her girlfriend pops in sometimes too.”

“Seems like you were very picky when you chose this place.”

“Hmm. I saw about fifty other buildings first. None of them felt like home, y’know?”

“I’m the opposite,” Draco admits, fully aware that if he’s going to get anywhere with Potter, he has to be emotionally vulnerable. Which is even more terrifying. “I suppose I didn’t think about it that much when I was leaving the manor. It wasn’t the best time to be house hunting and I just wanted to get out of there. Mother spent a while looking for a new one in the countryside, but, without being insensitive, I couldn’t deal with seeing her every single day.”

Potter raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised Draco even thought about his parental situation before talking about not living with his mother, when Potter would most likely burn the world to the ground just to spend one hour with his own.

“That’s alright,” Potter insists, leaning against the counter and taking a thoughtful sip of his drink. “I know its different. The culture would have been different too.”

Draco thinks about it for a second, then sniffs and leans forward, elbows and forearms resting on the marble.

“Not all that different,” he tells him. “The society parties and events were far less often than you think, and when father was away on business, which was a lot, my mother and I would usually run a fairly relaxed household. There’s a reason she extended the fireplaces when they originally moved into the manor. The dungeons at Hogwarts were very cold and dingy compared to our main living room at home. We spent hours sat in front of that hearth reading together.”

Draco has to force himself not to panic or trip on words as he talks. This is already more than he’s ever shared with anyone. Blaise and Pansy were there, they already know; and Granger is his best friend, but he’s still careful around her.

“Sounds lovely,” Potter says, his voice strangely soft, a sadness in his eyes that makes Draco feel like a shithead.

“Sorry,” he replies. “I don’t – I didn’t mean-”

“Draco,” Potter interrupts him with a strangely gentle smile, reaching out to touch his arm, eyes sad, but now Draco is paying attention, sparkling with a soft acceptance. “Its alright. I’m not going to break just hearing about someone else’s relationship with their parents. You forget, I grew up with the Weasleys. I basically lived there for half my time at Hogwarts. I do have a family. Its just non-nuclear and more chosen.”

“If only,” Draco can’t stop himself from snorting and Potter frowns, naturally retracting his hand. Draco hates how much he suddenly misses the pressure. He breathes in and swallows, nodding and clearing his throat.

“I think we all get a little jealous of aspects of each other’s upbringing. I doubt your father was particularly open or nurturing. I also grew up with the Dursley’s and slept under some stairs until I was eleven. I understand what you mean by ‘not so different’.”

“What wonderful dinner table chat,” Draco says, but there’s no malice or awkwardness behind it, and instead he feels less stressed, like he’s been coming to this place and basking in this atmosphere for years.

“Oh, we have death and rivalry to cover yet, better get comfortable,” Potter laughs dryly, winking at him and touching his arm again before pushing off the counter and opening the oven.

* * *

 

“… I don’t understand why this man is a popular character,” Malfoy says, placing his fork down on his empty plate and gesturing at the TV. “He is disrespectful and fragile and doesn’t know how to talk to women at all.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Harry laughs, glancing at Ross Geller on the screen, “he’s not so popular anymore. Everyone thinks Rachel should have ended up with Joey.”

“Are you sure Joey and Chandler aren’t in love?”

“You’re very cute. Never google this, you sweet summer child.”

Malfoy glares at him and steals a chip, throwing it at his forehead.

“I forget you didn’t grow up with this kind of thing,” Harry says, picking the chip up off the rug and popping it in his mouth, enjoying the petulant look of disgust on Malfoy’s expression. “Even at the Dursley’s I caught at least one episode of Friends now and again. Its classic romcom.”

“What is a ‘romcom’?”

“Romantic comedy,” Harry tells him, swigging his wine, pleasantly surprised that Malfoy bought such a cheap bottle. “You knew what Ofcom was.”

“Hermione has been… educating me. We watched the EastEnders last week.”

“Star Wars is our next binge watch,” Harry insists before he can stop himself, realising too late that he’s implied this will be a more frequent happening even though they haven’t even discussed it yet. This in itself is a weird as fuck anomaly.

“Ah yes, the war of the stars. Blaise mentioned it. He says it’s very entertaining.”

“Best Sci-Fi franchise ever.”

“What about the Stark Trek?”

Harry has to stop himself from laughing, and swallows on the lump of fondness gathering in his throat. Its very unfair that Malfoy is just right there being so endearing.

“Star Trek,” Harry corrects him, failing to keep his voice from going soft and a little embarrassing. “Meh, depends on who you ask. It’s not my thing.”

“Don’t let Weasley hear you say that.”

“I also forget you’re friends with all of my friends now too,” Harry admits, sitting back, a bit stuffed from the food, cheeks warm from the alcohol.

“I still feel like I was tricked into that,” Draco remarks, looking mildly amused. “Its very alarming. Weasley turned up at my doorstep at 3am last week, off his tits. I had to levitate him to the sofa and fetch him a sick bucket.”

Harry laughs because honestly, that sounds like Ron, and if he had a quid for every time he’s had to tuck him in after a night out he would be… well, richer than he is now. It’s just the idea of Draco, pristine cut, proper businessman Draco Malfoy lugging Ron’s heft from the porch onto an Italian leather sofa.

“He does that,” Harry says, shaking his head. “Blaise has threatened to get a t-shirt that says ‘if found, please return to Zabini.’”

“How embarrassingly sweet,” Draco rolls his eyes. “Of all the people to domesticate Blaise, I did not expect it to be him.”

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, chewing some chicken, waving his fork around thoughtfully, “I didn’t think so either, but when I really spent time with them together, I realised it makes an incredible amount of sense. They sort of balance each other out, right?”

Its only when Draco raises his eyebrows at him, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth, that Harry clues in on the trap he walked into.

“Shut up,” he says, pointing his fork at him. “You shush.”

“I didn’t say anything, Potter.”

“You were thinking. That’s more annoying.”

“So, you’re a seer now?”

“No, you’re just very obvious. And I don’t think you were trying to be sneaky about it either.”

“I resent that, everything I do is sneaky, remember?”

Harry tuts at him, but struggles to keep the grin off of his face as Ross yells pivot from a set of stairs and Chandler yells at him to be quiet.

“Its dark,” Harry observes, finishing his meal and shuffling back, crossing his legs. “Holy shit, its 10pm!”

“Hm, time flies,” Malfoy shrugs. “Cigarette?”

“Balcony,” Harry nods towards the glass, sliding doors and Malfoy retrieves a blue cig from a packet of Sobranie’s, handing it to him and taking his own green one. The London night is cool and refreshing on his wine reddened cheeks, and Harry draws it deep into his lungs, leaning against the bannister and letting Draco light up for him.

“Well this has been an interesting evening.”

“Sure, it wasn’t just ‘satisfactory’?” Harry says, pursing his lips, enjoying the disgruntled expression he’s offered.

“Put it to you to ruin a perfectly nice moment, Potter.”

“Awh, nice as well! That wine has really gone to your head.”

“How stable are these railings?”

Harry flips him the bird, inhaling and watching the smoke swirl in front of him, calmed further by the light mist of rain and the lights reflecting off of the Thames.

“I think we’re past murdering each other at this point.”

“I don’t know, the urge is always under the surface.”

“And there was me, thinking I might have warmed the iceman.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Draco says, staring out across the cobblestones to the water, a soft bliss shining in his blue eyes. Harry hates what that does to his insides. Like every hair on his body is standing on end and his heart is beating faster than ever, but he’s calm and peaceful and its just… so fucking _nice_. Exactly what Draco’s said. Just nice. Its something he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

“I don’t think we’ve ever been anything but strange.”

“Why would you want to be?” Draco says, his voice a little croaky and far off. Most likely a mixture of alcohol and sleepiness from the food. “I can assure you, after a lifetime of tradition and propriety, a little bit of strange is very good for the soul.”

Harry doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. Which is alright, because the silence is comfortable and weirdly familiar, like its been there his whole life but just never payed attention. He’s beginning to think there’s a lot of things he’s been overlooking. Or just ignoring.

They smoke their cigarettes, clean up the plates, and its decided without words that Draco will kip on the sofa. He’s had far too much to drink to apparate, and Harry doesn’t really want to let him wonder around London at night on his own intoxicated. They finish watching the episode of Friends, but the next one plays and no one turns the TV off. Around 2am, Harry comes back to himself and realises, with alarm bells, that Draco has fallen asleep, curled up against the cushions near his hip, face buried in the fabric.

Its terrifying, really, what happens in his chest. It’s that wrenching, hurtling sensation that comes when you know you’re heading towards something spectacular but don’t know how to halt and take a moment to think. To gather. To understand and consider the consequences.

In that moment Harry thinks he might die for him.

Then he realises that that’s always been the case. Even when he hated Draco Malfoy he would have taken a bullet for him without a second thought.

With a deep, tired sigh, he grabs the purple throw from the armchair and drapes it over him, retiring to his room.

It takes him only a few minutes to fall asleep, and when he does, its deep and harmonious, the type of rest that only comes to someone who feels utterly and completely safe.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm a bad author and its been far too long since the last update. I've been having to do a lot of overtime at work, and then I met my girlfriend and other stuff has happened so its been super hectic. 
> 
> Hopefully this makes up for it. 
> 
> I promise I'm still dedicated to this story, its just taking longer than originally planned. As is with most things. 
> 
> Let me know what you think, and as always, thank you <3

I love writing and making people happy, but it takes a lot of time and effort and I do it for free. So if you wanna buy me a coffee, [you can](https://paypal.me/DeeRead). If not, that's okay too. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it <3

* * *

 

They get the building.

Hermione is almost in tears when she hangs up on a very excited Draco, only to have it snatched straight out of her hands.

“Harry texted me whilst you were talking to him,” Ginny smirks, “they’re together.”

“Ew,” Pansy cringes. “I don’t wanna know what they’ve been up to.”

“This is Harry,” Luna says, stretching out in the sand. “He wont act on his feelings until they’re nearly killing him.”

Ginny gives her a look and Luna smiles, rolling her eyes and leaning over to kiss her.

She’ll never get bored of that. The softness of Luna’s lips, the button nose as it nudges her own, the pressure of her long, bony fingers as she puts a hand on Ginny’s knee to steady herself. Its always her favourite part of the day.

“Don’t tease me, I was oblivious.”

“Hm,” Ginny says, narrowing her eyes, mouth tingling as Luna pulls away. “I still think you had at least some idea.”

Hermione makes to grab her phone back but Ginny gives it to Luna, who drops it in her bag. She has no hope of finding it in there unless she wants to rummage through a random mirage of around fifty other objects that always somehow come in handy.

“Darling, would you fetch me a glass of water?” Ginny asks, and Luna flips her the bird but gets up to go to the strip of restaurants and bars directly behind them anyway.

“Hey, Weasley, when you gonna put a ring on that?” Pansy interjects.

“Please don’t refer to my girlfriend as a ‘that’,” Ginny sighs, putting her sunglasses back over her eyes and relaxing, intoxicated by the gentle burn of the sun on her freckled skin. “And I’m proposing on her birthday.”

“Oooooh,” Granger says, sufficiently distracted, “I love proposals!”

“Might that have something to do with you living vicariously through everyone else’s romantic lives?” Ginny snorts.

Hermione narrows her eyes, pouting and crossing her arms over her chest. Pansy chuckles as she sits back against her sunbed and extends her arm behind Hermione to play absently with her curls.

Ginny works hard to keep the smirk off her face as she watches them. Hermione has become used to Parkinson touching her now; no longer jumps like she’s been shocked by an open socket. So much so, that she doesn’t even react when Parkinson’s fingers brush the curls at her neck and come to trace patterns around her shoulders.

Its obvious that she’s actively trying not to react though, at least to Ginny who has known her for over a decade now. It won’t be long before the tension between the two of them snaps like a tightrope and they freefall together. Its going to be both very entertaining and stressful to watch.

* * *

Hermione is beyond happy to touch back down at Heathrow.

London ushers in Autumn like the season was made solely for the city. The sound of taxi tyres cutting and splashing through muddy puddles outside the foyer, and the smell of earth brought to life by the soft spray of rain is the sweetest, darkest symphony. Her favourite time of year, and the most magical, she’s sure.

Having prepared beforehand for such weather upon arrival, she’d changed into a pair of tailoured silk trousers and some black leather Chelsea boots, wrapped snuggly in a white turtleneck jumper, and a long woolblend kaftan, checked in black and grey. Feeling rather smug watching Ginny shivering in her camisole and feebly thin leather jacket, jeans rolled at the ankles, socks soaked through, Luna rolls her eyes and drapes a knitted poncho over her shoulders.

Parkinson emerges from the loos after twenty minutes of them waiting, looking as though she has never known a jet lag, dressed in tight jeans, over-the-knee boots, and a gorgeous deep purple velvet robe, lined with faux fur. Hermione makes a note to get the designer from her later, and hails down a black cab, not particularly wishing to apparate after already flying.

She doesn’t kiss or hug Ginny and Luna goodbye, for fear of having to decide on whether to do the same for Pansy, and instead waves, and settles in the back of the car with her bag. The interior smells of leather and Camden, and she lets out a sigh of relief as she sinks in and smiles to herself.

“West Heath Road,” she says, and they’re off.

She almost falls asleep on the 40-minute ride home, and has to be told twice by the driver that they’ve pulled up outside her gated brownstone, politely and sleepily declining the offer for assistance with her luggage. Tipping generously, she makes sure everything is locked behind her.

“Hermione,” one of her neighbours, a lanky young popstar with long curly hair and tired eyes, greets her. He’s gardening in the pouring rain, kitted out in alarmingly bright Gucci trackie bottoms printed with the faces of panthers in the colours of the rainbow. “You’re back!”

“Yep,” she grins from the shelter of the porch. “Reckon I’m ready for my own bed now.”

“Best feeling,” he waves his shears about to emphasise his point, and she has to stop herself from ducking, having been nearly impaled on numerous occasions by his well-meaning enthusiasm. “How was the holiday?”

“Great. Hot. Quiet. Just what the doctor ordered. Did I miss anything important?”

“Nah,” he shrugs, standing up straight, clearly having to remind himself to correct his own posture, putting one hand on his hip. “I finished tour!”

“I gathered, considering you’re… here, and not on the other side of the planet. Is your lad happy?”

“Chuffed!” he says wiping some sweat and rain water from his brow. “He’s just got a new TV gig anyways, so its worked out great. ‘ve got a lasagne for you in the kitchen, I’ll bring it over later so you don’t have to cook anything after the flight. Hey, something’s different.”

She squirms a little. She loves him, he’s probably the kindest, most generous person she’s ever met, but honestly, he’s far too intuitive for his own good. She’s rather sure he and his long-term boyfriend could take over the world with how much they can read from just looking at people.

“No,” she says. “Shush. No.”

“You’ve got a crush!” he pipes up, pointing at her with the shears he’s clearly forgotten are in his other hand. “You! You little minx, you’re in love!”

“I am not in love, will you keep your mouth shut, bloody hell!”

“SUN!” he yells at their ground floor window, “SUN, HERMIONE IS IN LOVE!”

“What now?”

“Christ, its fine, Lo-”

“Inside voice, ya madhead,” a Yorkshire accent arrives in the doorway before the man does, cutting Hermione’s protests off, a few inches shorter than his counterpart, but no less vibrant. “Alright, babe? How goes?”

Hermione looks between their expectant stares, one a clear, shining green, the other a stunning cerulean blue.

“You’re menaces,” she proclaims, “the both of you.”

“Snatched yourself a new bird then, love?”

“No,” Hermione says, “I absolutely have not. Just – look, I’m going to bother you both when I’ve slept for a few hours anyway, we can discuss this then. Also those trousers are ridiculous and I love them. Goodbye.”

* * *

 

The world settles back into place as easily as it had been shaken up.

Work on the orphanage begins immediately, and before Hermione knows it, its almost November and her life is one giant building site.

Waking up at the arse crack of dawn every single day is something she’s been used to since she was eleven, however, so she adjusts pretty quickly.

This morning is no different. She jolts upward at the shrill ringing of her alarm around 4am, showers for longer than she really should after a hearty rendition of What Makes You Beautiful. She does that mainly because she knows they can hear her next door, and enjoys the angry banging begging her to shut the hell up. Those poor lads will probably have to hear that song at their funerals.

Then she dresses in tough leather boots, leggings, a plaid coat, and a high vis. She leaves with her keys jingling in her pocket, her safety helmet tucked under her arm, and her tablet in the glove compartment, charged and ready to go.

The builders are already there when she arrives, waiting for her to open the gates and let them in. Parked nearby leant against his SUV, is Draco, looking very tired but otherwise powered up, handing her a coffee.

“Alright,” she says, after pressing a kiss to his cheek in thanks and opening her plans up on her screen. “You know what you’re all doing today, right?”

“Rear view roof,” Trevor, head of construction answers immediately whilst she unlocks the chains. “We got the new materials in yesterday so we should have that all done by tomorrow.”

“And we’re installing the plumbing in bathrooms A, D, and F,” Kyle gestures to his boys to get to moving, and they start unloading their van.

“Knocking out wall 13 today, boss,” Nick pipes in as they enter the threshold, “we thought there might be some trouble with the foundations but the planning permission guys cleared it yesterday afternoon.”

“Good, I’m sick of arguing with them,” Draco sighs. “Alright, everyone, it’s a beautiful day to build a house for broken children. Let’s go!”

And then everyone is off, and Hermione and Draco are left standing outside the large old manor house, staring up at its solid stone casing and gothic architecture, getting soaked by the rain already.

“Its coming together.”

“Slowly,” she smiles.

“I’m falling in love with Potter.”

“I know,” she keeps smiling, turning finally to meet his eyes. “Scary, right?”

“Terrifying.”

“We’ll be alright.”

Sighing, she pushes up on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around him, feeling his thread around her waist. Burying her face in his shoulder, she takes a moment to let her body relax and remember that what they’re doing here will change lives, regardless of what else is happening.

“C’mon,” she says, breaking away softly, her hands cradling his face. “Lets go build the tiny humans a home.”


End file.
